The Bandit King
by Neckee777
Summary: "To our kingdom." Up in the mountains, a bandit clan exists. It is by far one of the largest, spearheaded by a vampiric Argonian and disturbingly calm Orc. But tempers flare, power corrupts, and cramped space has pushed the bandits to stage an all-out invasion. And Whiterun is just at the foot of the mountain... And so the Bandit Kingdom rises, and with it, a Bandit King.
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING! CONTAINS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE!**

**This story contains detailed, vivid and brutal descriptions of extreme acts of violence. If you are impervious to descriptive scenes of such crooked acts of dismemberment, evisceration, decapitation, incineration, general bleeding, reference to rape and living people having their bodies being torn in half (amongst other things) then by all means, read on! If any of the acts listed above upset or may upset you, then please click the back button now, because this story really isn't for you. If you decide to ignore my advice and read on anyway, there's nothing I can do about that except say that I gave you the chance to turn back and that YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!**

* * *

The planes of Whiterun rolled golden-green over the landscape, meeting roads and rivers, playing host to the life of plants, animals, man and mer alike.

The planes met the mountains, cold stone that climbed on jagged edges and snowy peaks.

The mountains too caressed the sky and the clouds, and from the clouds the snow fell, dancing its way downward as it returned to the earth, spiralling white flakes that left a trail of wonder and beauty in their wake.

The snow landed on the mountain top, where ancient tombs are built. The summit is graced by the snow, but defiled by its inhabitants. It is here where Bleak Falls Barrow rests.

A tribe of bandits sit around fires. Some drink, some sharpen their weapons, some laugh, and some do all three. The sound of the wind is mingled with the murmur of three dozen men, mer and beasts. They talk of what it is they speak, of their desires, wishes cruel and kind, tales of malice, love and greed.

Above them sits a throne, and on that throne an Argonian rests lazily, his feet up on a chest overflowing with gold, gemstones and jewellery.

At his side, on a stool, sits an Orc, who rests his hand on a vicious battle axe, said to have once belonged to the Daedric prince Clavicus Vile, and also said to be the reason the Orc had lost an ear and an eye on the left side of his face; as it is with Vile's cruel sense of humour.

The Argonian wore fur leggings and a fur cloak. He wore no shirt, exposing his scaled and muscled chest. His hands were covered by iron gauntlets, as his feet were covered by iron boots. He surveyed his little garrison with burning orange eyes, and his lips twisted into an amused smirk, revealing the fangs that they usually hid. Unconsciously, he toyed with a golden ring adorned with a blood-red crystal at its centre, and felt the flow of power that came from the object.

He looked across to his lieutenant, who caught his eye and nodded, a smile touching his scarred face. At this moment, and many others in the past, the Argonian knew he had a trusted friend and ally.

A call came from up ahead that caught the Argonian's attention.

It was the lookout, signalling the return of the hunting party.

Down below a half-dozen men rounded a rocky outcrop, deers and hares strung up on their backs and belts.

The Argonian rose to meet them as they climbed the steps, and two men rushed to help their comrades with their burden.

The Argonian addressed the leader of the hunting party.

"How many?"

"Two deer and a dozen or so hares," the leader - a Nord with dark red hair and hazel eyes - replied. "We'll be eating well tonight."

The Argonian nodded. "Good to hear." He cast a quizzical eye over the rest of the party. "Two of you are missing."

It wasn't a question, rather a statement. The Nord nodded.

"Yes, Chief," he said simply. "One of the recruits deserted. Emrik gave chase. He should return shortly."

The Argonian nodded. "I see." He made his way to the chest and rummaged through its contents, counting out a number of gold pieces.

"Thank you, men, for feeding us tonight," he said, shaking each of the hunting parties hands and offering them the gold.

The thanks was chorused by the rest of the bandits.

The Nord bowed. "It is an honour, Chief."

The Argonian singled out eight people to act as the hunting party for the following day, a duty which they accepted with good levels of enthusiasm.

He took his seat at the throne again and relaxed.

"It's some kingdom you've built here," the Orc at his side grunted.

The Argonian chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is."

A Bosmer approached the Argonian and offered him a chalice of deer blood. The Argonian thanked the woman and drank the blood. With each sip his thirst was slightly quenched, and the animal savagery that had begun to build within him subsided.

Animal blood tasted somehow muskier than that of a man or mer, but he had vowed to never feed off his own. Besides, a victim would present themselves eventually. Especially if Emrik caught the deserter...

"Shouldn't Emrik be back by now?" The Argonian asked.

"I wouldn't worry," the Orc grunted again. "He knows what his doing. Probably making sure he catches the deserter without a hitch. If the deserter made it to Whiterun, Emrik will just be extra careful. But he will return."

The Argonian nodded, trusting in his friends good judgement.

"It's cold," the Orc said after some moments.

"It is," the Argonian nodded.

"Why not take shelter inside?"

"I've told you," the Argonian said patiently. "That is where the dead sleep, and it is in there where they shall remain."

"There's loot in that crypt. The dead aren't using it. Why not relieve them of it?"

"We sent our best stalkers in to take what they could find. One of them didn't return. I'd rather not risk the lives of my men against the likes of the draugr."

The Orc nodded, understanding the decision as fair judgement.

"One question," he said.

"By all means."

"What do we do if more bandits turn up? We can hardly fit the number we have here already."

The Argonian sighed, recognising the truth of the situation. In all honesty, it had been plaguing his thoughts for many days.

"I will think of something," he said at length. "Don't worry."

The Orc shrugged. "I'm not worried. I don't have to sleep down there."

The two chuckled.

The Orc raised his goblet in a quiet toast.

"To our kingdom," he said.

The Argonian touched his goblet to his friends and the two drank.

"To our kingdom."


	2. Chapter 2

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater sat in his chambers, a look of worry etched across his features. He reflected on the events of the previous hour.

A Breton had arrived in Whiterun, seemingly in a great hurry and in need of an audience with the Jarl. The guards took the babbling foreigner and half restrained; half dragged him to Dragonsreach, where he was forced to his knees and commanded to be out with what it was he needed to say.

The man had grovelled incoherently for some minutes before Balgruuf had gotten any intelligible words out of him, and what the Breton had said was… distressing.

After disclosing that he was being pursued, Balgruuf thought it wise to place the man under protective custody – in a prison cell, lightly furnished.

Across from Balgruuf his steward – Aventus Avenicci – sat at a desk. The sound of ink being scrawled on paper filled the room as Aventus wrote with each intricate loop, each dot, hyphen and detail that made up the written version of the common tongue. He wrote a report of what had occurred that night.

"Reflect for me, Aventus," Balgruuf said quietly.

"Soon, my Jarl," Aventus replied, still writing on the page.

Some moments passed before Aventus lowered his quill and sighed.

"What did the Breton say, Aventus?" Balgruuf said. "Reflect with me. Refresh my memory."

Aventus cleared his throat and took up the paper he was just writing on. He opened his mouth to begin speaking when Balgruuf raised a hand, signalling for him to wait.

"Only the important details," he said.

Aventus gave a slight bow. "As you wish, my Jarl."

His eyes darted across the page before him, extracting all the information that would be necessary whilst leaving out the smaller details that really mustn't be said, but protocol dictated be written.

"The Breton spoke of bandit camp up in the mountains," Aventus spoke. "Near the old Nordic crypt: Bleak Falls Barrow."

"A bandit camp is hardly anything to worry about," the Jarl grunted.

"Indeed, Jarl, but the Breton insisted that this camp wasn't like any other you'd have seen. There was order, rules, a clear and distinct _leader. _The bandits would be taking residence in Bleak Falls Barrow, but the leader is said to refuse risking the life of his man against the draugr. He left the tomb alone and set up camp outside."

"So he has some degree of honour and respect for his men. There have been bandits like that in the past."

"No, sir, not like him. Most bandits exert the will with force, battle, strength of arms. This leader is said to have risen to his position with subtlety, subterfuge, and the spoken word. Diplomacy! Can you believe it."

Jarl Balgruuf sat up straighter, the look of worry deepening. "Tell me more about this leader."

"He's an Argonian," Aventus stated. "A vampire, too. He is said to have ties to the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, though we're unsure what these ties are. The Breton said he doesn't even carry a weapon. It's never been seen. He is not afraid of his own men, nor is he afraid of an attempt on his life."

"Why would you be with ties to the Dark Brotherhood?" Balgruuf grunted.

"Indeed, my Jarl."

"So what is his name, then?"

"He is simply known as Ti'laan, my Jarl."

"And how big is the force he leads?"

"Over forty, though more are said to arrive every other day."

The Jarl paled slightly. "A bandit clan of forty? It has never been heard…"

Aventus nodded, sharing the Jarl's worry. "This Ti'laan is nothing like we've ever seen, my Jarl. He is honourable, respectful; he pays his men fairly for the tasks they do in and outside of the camp. And that's not even the most worrying part."

"What is?"

"His men respect him. He trains them, feeds them; chances are they're all richer now than they've ever been. That's enough to make any bandit follow you without question. Ti'laan is cunning, careful, and at times cruel."

Balgruuf raised an eyebrow. "Cruel?"

"The Breton told us that there are strict rules within the camp. Men and mer who break those rules are met with harsh and often torturous punishments."

Balgruuf nodded. "Fear. It is another element of leadership. I just never assumed it would go hand it hand with honour." He sat in silence for some moments. "What does the Breton say about their force?"

"It appears to be strong, Jarl," Aventus read from the parchment. "There seem to be different 'classes' within the clan. Ti'laan controls warriors, mages, thieves… everything."

Balgruuf resigned deep into his own thoughts. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"There is one other thing, my Jarl."

"Yes?"

"Ti'laan's lieutenant."

"What about him?"

"He is an Orc. Heavily muscled, with a disfigured face. Scars, blind out of one eye, missing an ear, all on the left side. He wields a battle axe, the likes of which none of the bandits have ever seen. It is said he made a deal with Clavicus Vile."

"You do not think he is…?"

Aventus' mouth was in a hard line. He simply nodded his head.

The Jarl let out the breath he'd been holding and sunk deeper into his chair. "If this Ti'laan has gained the loyalty of Guraag the Bleeder then he is not to be underestimated."

"No, Jarl," Aventus said. "What do you suggest we do?"

"Send a force to the bandit camp to assess the situation. No more than a half-dozen men. We need to know what we're up against, and we need to be discreet about it."

Aventus bowed. "At once, my Jarl."

He made to leave the chambers, and upon opening the door was met face-to-face with one of the city guard who had raised their fist to knock on the wood.

"What do you want?" Aventus said sharply.

"Is the Jarl in?"

"Of course he is."

"I must speak with him. It's urgent."

Aventus opened his mouth to retort when Balgruuf interrupted him.

"Send him in, Aventus."

Aventus hid a scowl and stepped to the side, gesturing for the guard to enter the chambers.

The guard did so and bowed as the Jarl rose from his chair, all composure regained.

"What is it you wish to tell me?" Balgruuf asked.

"It's the Breton, Jarl," the guard started. "We made to check on him after the half-hour, like you commanded, but when we entered his cell…" He trailed off.

"Well?" Balgruuf said urgently. "Out with it!"

"The thing is, Jarl," the guard took a breath. "He's gone."

* * *

It was dawn the following morning when Emrik dragged a beaten and bruised Breton back up to the bandit camp at Bleak Falls Barrow.

He heard the shout of the lookout and the bustle of arms being gathered. Emrik raised his hand in a gesture of peace, and the air somehow seemed to relax.

Two bandits ran down the steps and gathered the Breton from Emrik, relieving him of carrying it. Emrik looked to Ti'laan, who simply nodded. Emrik knew the gesture meant praise, and that he could rest easy. And he did so, sitting near his friends and comrades at one of the fires.

The two bandits brought the deserter and forced him to his knees in front of Ti'laan.

"There's no need for that," Ti'laan said, waving a dismissive hand. He got his hands under the trembling Bretons armpits and hoisted him to his feet.

"There you go," he said, patting the man on the shoulder.

"Please don't hurt me…" The deserter said weekly.

Ti'laan raised a non-existent eyebrow. "Are you scared?"

The deserter nodded his head furiously.

Ti'laan looked to Guraag, who gave a wolfish smile.

The bandits had all stood and gathered, watching with scowls on their faces and bloodlust in their eyes.

"Don't be scared of me," Ti'laan said in the Bretons ear. "Be scared of _them._"

The Breton looked at the mass of bandits and, feeling the malice radiating from them, averted his eyes, gazing once more at the ground.

"As you can probably tell, we don't take to deserters well," Ti'laan said quietly. "They're not… trustworthy, shall we say."

"Are you going to hurt me?" the deserter asked.

Ti'laan took a mocking step backwards. "Well of course! I need to show my men what happens to deserters. Especially those who escape to civilization and presumably tell the main power of our existence!"

"I… I never…" The Breton started, but his eyes betrayed his lie.

"Ssshhh…" Ti'laan said, brushing a finger over the Bretons lips. "It's only a punch. One hit. No weapons, no poisons, no magic. Just a punch."

The Breton hesitated, but then swallowed and nodded understanding.

Ti'laan smiled. "Ok." He then addressed the gathered bandits. "Should we show him how we treat deserters here?"

There was a roar of approval.

Ti'laan grinned a wicked grin. "So be it."

He pulled back his iron-gloved arm to deliver a punch. And he did so, his hand striking the deserters chest. There was a crunch and squelch, and then a wet and thick _snap _as Ti'laan wrenched his hand from the Bretons chest, pulling the mans' heart with it.

The look of shock and pain was painted on the now dead Bretons frozen features, and it was the last look that ever graced his face before he tumbled down the steps into the rabble of bandits, who cheered with bloodlust and cruelty.

Ti'laan tossed the spasming human heart off the side of the mountain and watched it fall until it was just a red snow flake in a sea of white.

Guraag took a place beside Ti'laan.

"Toss the body off the side of the mountain," Ti'laan said calmly. "But not before bleeding him dry. I want a cup of his blood."

Guraag smiled cruelly and descended into the rabble of bandits. Ti'laan took his seat and shut his eyes.

He breathed the cold air deeply as the sound of Guraag's axe and splitting flesh filled his ears.


	3. Chapter 3

The fires continued to burn and the sun made its descent from the sky, casting the landscape in a red-orange hue that bounced off the clouds and the snow.

On his throne, Ti'laan took his chalice, filled with the last of the deserters blood, and took a tentative sip from it. The blood of Bretons was unique. One moment in would be sweet, the next it would be sour, and the moment after that it would become bitter, before finally returning to sweetness again. Ti'laan attributed the changing tastes to the magic that raced through the Bretons system. Being the mongrel race of men - half man and half elf - Bretons possessed in their blood all the tastes of both species.

Ti'laan swirled the liquid around in his mouth, savouring every flavour, before swallowing. Oblivion knows when he would drink like this again.

As always, Guraag sat at his side, leaning an arm on his battle axe. The bandits sat around the fires somewhat impatiently. It had been months since their last raid, and even though the flow of riches coming into the clan was constant, some of them were becoming restless.

"The men grow restless," Guraag said gruffly, as if reading Ti'laan's thoughts.

The Argonian merely nodded. "They are."

"Have you a raid planned?"

"Better," Ti'laan said with a hint of a smile in his voice. "I've thought of a plan to get some of the men out of the camp, and move the entire clan into a larger and more comfortable residence."

Guraag waited for Ti'laan to elaborate, but the lizard did no such thing.

"Bring me Emrik," he said instead.

Guraag grunted and, rising from his chair, waded down into the clan in search of Emrik.

Moments later, the Orc had returned with the bandit following close behind.

"Emrik," Ti'laan addressed.

"Chief," Emrik nodded.

"It dawned on me that I never paid you for your efforts in capturing the deserter," Ti'laan said.

"I appreciate the gesture, Chief, but payment won't be necessary."

Ti'laan watched Emrik closely. Where most bandits declined payment out of courtesy, they always still had a greed in their eyes that suggested that they would not decline if the offer were made a second time. Emrik, Ti'laan noted, was not like other bandits. He declined payment out of courtesy, yes, but he also did so because gold didn't interest him. It was what he brought to their little dysfunctional family that was payment enough for him. It was this reason why Ti'laan favoured Emrik over any bandit. Except perhaps Guraag.

"Nevertheless, I insist," Ti'laan said at last. "Take what you please."

"I respectfully decline your offer, Chief," Emrik replied instantly. "All I ask is to be part of the next party to go out."

Ti'laan acted as if he were mulling it over, though truth be told he had already assigned Emrik to lead the hunting party the following night.

"As you wish," Ti'laan said at length.

Emrik nodded. "Chief. Guraag."

Guraag gave the man a wicked grin, and the bandit left.

He walked down towards the lookout to relieve whoever was on duty, not because he had to, but because he wanted, _needed_, something to do.

The current lookout was a Bosmer woman. Emrik noted how many of the assigned lookouts were Wood Elves, most probably because of their sharp eyes.

When Emrik approached the woman she barely acknowledged his existence. She wore a face of concern.

"What's the matter?" Emrik asked.

The Bosmer shook her head, but pointed. "That outcrop there. I saw movement. Too large to be a fox or a wolf, but too small to be a troll or a bear. Thankfully," she added.

"Why not investigate?"

"It was brief, and it didn't look like a threat, but still..." She shivered. "Something tells me that it's not good. Whatever it is."

"Should we go and check it out?" Emrik enquired.

The woman slowly nodded.

"Krole," Emrik said, addressing a Redguard man close-by.

Krole looked up.

"Could you fill in lookout for a few moments? Vestya and I need to check something out."

Krole nodded, but didn't say anything, as usual.

_Probably because he has no tongue._ Emrik thought.

Emrik and Vestya dropped from the lookout into the soft snow below, and made their way across to the outcrop in the dying light.

As the drew closer they slowed down to a quieter pace, though the crunching ice beneath their feet may as well have been hammers on an anvil.

Carefully, ever so slowly, Emrik unsheathed his sword. The shining metal of the blade caught the last of the light, giving the illusion that the sword was glowing with orange flames.

The blade was light in his hands, but Emrik knew the steel was strong, and not for the first time he consciously admired the craftsmanship of the Nords.

Behind him, Vestya had drawn her two Orcish daggers, and held them ready in a fighting stance that was known only to her.

Emrik held up a closed fist and the two stopped.

"On three," he mouthed.

Vestya nodded.

He counted the seconds on his fingers.

One...

Two...

Three!

The duo leapt around the corner, ready to meet resistance, but yet found none.

Emrik sheathed his sword.

"Looks like nothing," he said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

Vestya shook her head. "Not nothing. Look."

She crouched down to the snow just behind the outcrop.

"Footprints," she said, "I'd say a half dozen men. Varying sizes. Possibly a rival bandit clan."

Emrik scoffed. No bandit clan would dream of taking over what Ti'laan had built here.

Vestya gasped sharply.

"What is it?" Emrik asked.

"Not bandits," Vestya said. "Imperials. Look." She gestured to a faint outline of a dragon in the snow. The outline was repeated several times on the different footprints.

"They were here?"

Vestya nodded.

Emrik stood and helped Vestya to her feet.

"We have to tell Ti'laan," he said firmly. "Now."

* * *

Ti'laan sat with his eyes closed, deep in thought. He was contemplating the information that Emrik had recounted for him some minutes prior.

Guraag was on his feet for a change, but the Orc still leant against that battle axe.

"Do you have a plan, Ti'laan?" Guraag asked calmly.

"I do," the Argonian said. "In fact, it was the same plan I had before. Unfortunately, current events have forced me to play my hand."

Guraag waited for Ti'laan to explain further. This time he got lucky.

"We must move into Whiterun." Ti'laan said at last.

Guraag grinned slightly. "You mean to stage an invasion?"

"Yes, but not a... conventional invasion," Ti'laan said.

Guraag counted his blessings. He knew he wouldn't get more information out of Ti'laan right now.

"How many men will you need?" The Orc ventured.

Ti'laan counted under his breath. "Five," he said confidently. "Including myself. Two stalkers, a brute and a physician are all I need."

"You think you can conquer Whiterun with five men?"

Ti'laan turned his burning gaze upon Guraag. The Orc saw nothing but surety in his friends eyes.

"I know I can," Ti'laan said evenly. He rose from his throne. "Could you fetch me Darrius? I must speak with him."

Guraag just grunted and turned away. He exchanged a few words with a bandit and gestured to Ti'laan. The bandit nodded and climbed the steps to meet him.

"Darrius," Ti'laan greeted.

"Chief," Darrius returned, with a polite nod of the head.

Darrius was a spindly Dunmer, with filthy grey dreadlocks and a long beard. He was the oldest of the bandits, approaching one hundred and fifty years, and he was nigh on useless on the battlefield. But his mind was sharp, and the elf was clever, qualities Ti'laan respected.

"I need you to brew me some potions," Ti'laan said, getting straight to the point.

Darrius nodded. "I figured as much. What for?"

"I can't say for the moment," Ti'laan said.

Darrius shrugged.

"Of course, I'll pay you for your efforts."

"What is it you need?"

"Featherweight potions. Four of them."

"Featherweight potions? Hmm..." Darrius stroked his beard. "Ingredients for those aren't common, you know."

Ti'laan gestured to the rest of the bandit clan. "Take whoever you need to gather them, but take no more than four men."

Darrius nodded. "Well, that would make matters easier..."

Ti'laan waited as the Dunmer thought.

"Well?" He prompted.

"When do you need the potions by?"

"Before the week is out."

"Consider it done," Darrius said at length.

Ti'laan nodded. "Do not disappoint me."

"Wouldn't plan on it, Chief," Darrius said, a mischievous twinkle in his red eyes. "The last thing I want to become is your next meal."


	4. Chapter 4

A group of five bandits stood at the foot of Whiterun's outer wall, and Emrik was among them.

It was late in the night, and Masser and Secunda sat regally on their thrones in the sky, looking down on the mortal world with eyes of copper and moonstone.

Above them, Dragonsreach graced the Cloud District, with its roof and balcony only just visible to the group of criminals. And of course, the balcony was their target.

Ti'laan led the company, which was made up of a group of bandits he had handpicked for this operation. He'd told them they were going to take Whiterun. Emrik had been sceptical, but he now had a fair idea on how they would achieve it.

The company was made up of two stalkers, a brute, a physician, and Ti'laan himself. Emrik was one of the stalkers, and he was equipped with his quicksilver Nordic blade and a bow that had been 'salvaged' from Bleak Falls Barrow.

The other stalker was Ryann, an Imperial with dirty blond hair and a cruel gaze. Emrik met his eyes and received a scowl, to which he just scowled back. There was bad blood between himself and Ryann - that much was known - but Emrik was yet to find out why.

The brute was a Khajiit who was rippling with muscles. He had dark fur and piercings in places piercings definitely weren't needed. No one knew the cats name, but the clan fittingly called him Lion.

The physician, of course, was Darrius, the Dunmer. He had only made four potions, which he took from his satchel now, giving Emrik the idea that the Dark Elf wouldn't be following them into danger.

Ti'laan had chosen to leave Guraag behind to keep order. Not that anyone would uprise; the men respected and honoured the bandit leader. But they also feared him, and his painful methods of punishment and execution.

Darrius handed the potions to each of the assembled bandits.

"Featherweight potions," the Dunmer explained. "Once you drink it, the effects will only last for eight seconds."

"And what are the effects?" Ryann asked ignorantly.

"These brews will grant us the ability to jump from here," Ti'laan said, pointing to their place on the ground, "to there." He pointed to the Dragonsreach balcony.

The group nodded.

"Once we land on the balcony, we wait for half a minute to ensure the effects have subsided, then we continue," Ti'laan continued.

"Cheers, men," Emrik said, and the group all chinked their potions together before drinking.

Emrik gagged as the liquid flowed down his throat and burnt his insides. The taste started out awful – what Emrik imagined what mammoth dung would taste like – but it sweetened after time, leaving a honey aftertaste.

Ti'laan jumped and soared up into the sky. Ryann followed him eagerly, and then Emrik jumped.

The feeling of weightlessness was indescribable. Emrik was filled with pure, untainted _joy _as he all but flew through the air, the wind whipping through his dark red hair, the torchbugs passing by in blurs of yellow light.

And then it was over, and Emrik was crouched on the balcony, his mind back in the mission and his bow in hand.

Lion landed softly behind him, and the Nord and the Khajiit went to rendezvous with Ryann and Ti'laan.

"Two guards on the upper balcony, one of the floor," Ti'laan said, pointing. "Emrik, Ryann."

Emrik and Ryann unslung their bows and knocked an arrow to the strings. They both took careful aim on their targets and waited.

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three!_

There was a barely audible hiss as both arrows arced through the sky, cutting the air and finding their new homes in the chests of their targets.

In merely a second, three guards had been reduced to one.

Emrik watched from his cover as Ti'laan snuck up to the remaining guard on the floor, who so far seemed oblivious to the groups presence.

Ti'laan took a deep breath, and then gripped the guards sword and slid it carefully from its sheath, without alerting the guard at all.

Emrik saw this and gasped, completely amazed at the lizards skill.

Ti'laan then drew the sword back, and with a crack and thump the sword found its way through the guards chest. Ti'laan withdrew the sword, and as the guard collapsed he spun and the blade connected with the guards neck, severing his head.

Before the head could hit the ground Ti'laan caught it by the hair and lifted it up, letting some of the blood drip into his open maw. He dropped the head and spat the blood out.

"This one was drunk," the Argonian said simply.

The group followed on until they reached the door that would lead them into Dragonsreach, and inevitably the Jarl.

"Ryann, Lion, I need you two to go off to the right and collect Balgruuf's children. Emrik, you come with me."

Lion slowly opened the door and gestured for the group to entire, and they all did so, crouching low and taking light footsteps.

The room they had entered was a simple one, with a table, a chest and some bookshelves.

On command, Ryann and the Khajiit broke off to the right, into a separate room, and Emrik and Ti'laan snuck down the stairs that led to the Dragonsreach main hall.

Emrik and Ti'laan clung to the shadows, as within the hall were many guards and, to Ti'laan's pleasure, several of Whiterun's highest nobles.

"Stay," Ti'laan whispered. "Have your bow ready."

Emrik drew his bow and knocked an arrow to the bowstring.

Ti'laan stood and strolled into the limelight.

"Hello, citizens of Whiterun," Ti'laan said, taking a goblet of wine from one of the tables and drinking it.

Everyone looked, speechless, at this intruder.

"I am here to announce that, sadly, today is the day you relinquish this precious city," Ti'laan finished the sentence by gazing directly at Balgruuf, sitting on his throne.

In that moment Balgruuf knew who this lizard was. Those burning eyes told him all he needed to know.

"Guards!" The Jarl roared.

In moments a half-dozen guards stood on all angles of the Argonian, who could not look calmer in this situation.

"Are these some of your best men?" Ti'laan asked.

"Of course," Balgruuf said, standing from his throne.

"Are you sure you want to lose them?"

The Jarl didn't get a chance to answer.

With unnatural speed and grace, Ti'laan leapt towards the guard in front of him and threw a punch into his sternum. Ribs cracked and shattered, and the guard collapsed. The next guard was not so lucky. It only took a single uppercut augmented by Ti'laan's vampiric strength to sever the head from the body, and it did so with a blood-curdling tearing sound. Ti'laan caught the head as it came down and spun, throwing it at a third oncoming guard and disorientating him. When the guard regained his bearings the Argonian was there, stabbing two claws through the mans' eyes quickly and leaving him to scream and bleed. The fourth guard stupidly charged Ti'laan, who spun out of the way of the guards assault and gripped him by his uniform. The Argonian hoisted the guard and his feet left the ground. With a single toss the guard was in the massive fire burning at the centre of the Dragonsreach main hall. The remaining two guards hesitated, but then on some unspoken signal charged Ti'laan at the same time. They both raised their swords for a killing blow, but Ti'laan merely stepped away from their path, and both guards quite mistakenly impaled each other. They stood there with looks of confusion on their face, but then the Argonian was there, drawing the swords from both men's bodies and delivering a swipe that left two more guards headless. The carnage and the blood that had unfolded over the last ten seconds were phenomenal.

Ti'laan turned to the Jarl and gave a mocking bow.

"And that, my Jarl, is how you dance with death," the lizard said.

Everyone in the room looked on with pale faces. Some women cried, some men vomited, _everyone _was afraid.

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater took a threatening step forward when an arrow, come seemingly from nowhere, whizzed by his face. He froze in his tracks.

"I wouldn't," Ti'laan said. "The second one won't miss, I promise you."

Balgruuf regained some composure.

"What is it you want, _vampire_?" he all but spat the word.

"It's very simple," Ti'laan said. "I want you to evacuate your city of all men, women, children and guards so that my clan can move in. We've been having some cramped home issues lately, and we decided it was time to move in."

"If you think you'll get Whiterun so easily then you are mistaken," the Jarl said defiantly.

"I don't think so," Ti'laan said, wagging a finger. "You see, I want every guard in Dragonsreach gone. Leave these men and women, they are of importance and could be of some use to us. But otherwise, I want your city, I want your castle, I want your throne."

"If you think you'll get any of that then you are mistaken," the Jarl said. "You'll have to kill me to get what you want."

Ti'laan spread his arms. "I don't want anymore bloodshed, your… Jarlness… You have three children, do you not?"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"I really don't think you're in a position to make threats right now."

Someone whistled from the upper floor, and everyone's eyes looked to see Lion holding two of the Jarl's children by the scruff of their necks, and Ryann lightly pressing a blade into the neck of Balgruuf's daughter, a maniacal smile painted across his face.

Balgruuf paled and looked frantically to Ti'laan.

"I don't want anymore bloodshed," the lizard repeated.

Balgruuf's shoulders slumped, and his confidence as a ruler and as a father escaped him. He addressed the Dunmer woman by his side.

"Irileth, evacuate the townspeople, including the guards," he said weakly.

The woman gasped. "My Jarl, you can't be-"

"I will not gamble with the lives of my children, Irileth," the Jarl said. "Do it now."

Irileth hesitated, but then bowed lightly. "Yes, my Jarl."

"Wise choice, Balgruuf," Ti'laan said. "Ryann, if you would please stop threatening the Jarl's daughter," he called.

Ryann nodded and sheathed his sword, but still kept a firm hand on the girl.

"Take Lion and escort all of our friends into the dungeons," the Argonian continued. "And please don't harm them. We want to make sure their lives as prisoners aren't _completely _awful."

Ryann nodded again, and gestured to the Khajiit to follow him.

Ti'laan gestured to Emrik to come out of hiding. The Nord did so.

"Emrik, go back to the camp and tell Guraag to bring the men," Ti'laan smiled wickedly. "We have a new home."

* * *

On dawn the following morning, a troop of fifty bandits paraded into Whiterun, roaring and drinking to the victory of their leader.

Ti'laan sat on his throne in Dragonsreach with Guraag at his side.

A courier stood in front of them, shaking with fright. Ti'laan found it amusing even though he wished the spindly man no harm.

"I want you to send a message," the Argonian said. "I want you to get word out to invite all bandit clans to come to Whiterun. Come and drink, and prosper, and do almost anything you desire. Come and be a part of my kingdom."


	5. Chapter 5

Emrik crouched carefully in the undergrowth and ran his fingers through his light stubble. It was early morning, and the crisp air had been quick to wake him up. Dawns' light cut through the thin layer of clouds and cast spots of orange on the grassy earth.

Emrik's breath fogged in front of his face as he let out a breath. Consciously, he zoned in on the deer.

With smooth, calculated movements, Emrik took the arrow and knocked it to his Dwarven bow (a welcome step up from his previous weapon). He breathed deeply, let out half a breath, waited a beat, and –

"Hey," a familiar voice said from next to him.

Emrik all but jumped in surprise, and he cursed as the arrow flew several yards clear of his prey.

The deer perked up, and noticing the threat of Emrik's presence, began to run.

"You might want to get that," Vestya said from beside him.

He scowled at her as she took an arrow from its quiver, knocked it to her hunting bow, briefly took aim and fired.

With a hiss and a thud, the deer came down, an arrow planted firmly in its skull.

"You couldn't let me have the kill, could you?" Emrik said, crouching down to the now dead dear and drawing a dagger.

"You can't take all the glory," the Bosmer woman said good-humouredly.

Emrik chuckled lightly, and after removing the arrow from the deer's skull hoisted the animal onto his shoulder.

Emrik followed Vestya over the plains. With each step, the sun rose a little more, and by the time the two arrived at their camp the sun was casting its warming light over the landscape.

Emrik and Vestya had set up their hunting camp some miles due west of Whiterun. The camp was all a hunting camp needed to be. The embers of a campfire sat burning in a pit, and two tents were situated at the northern and southern ends of the camp. Two horses were tethered to a close-by tree, and close to the horses was a cart that was piled high with game, some of which was close to decaying.

The two had been camping here for almost three days now, and in those three days they'd caught and killed enough game to feed maybe a quarter of Whiterun's new population.

Thinking of Whiterun now, Emrik cast his eyes to the east. The roof of Dragonsreach was only just visible on the horizon. In the two months that Ti'laan had ruled over Whiterun, the bandit population had tripled and then tripled again. Of course, Ti'laan's invitation had been rejected by a lot of the major bandit clans across Skyrim, but most (if not all) of the minor bandit clans had come from all directions to join under Ti'laan's banner and be a part of his bandit kingdom.

_But of course, the kingdom isn't without its problems. _Emrik thought bitterly.

Ryann had become a continuous thorn in his side with every mission or task Ti'laan handed to him. _Jealousy is a curse._

The Empire had also proven to be an issue for Ti'laan, though Emrik knew his king would never agree to the fact. The only thing that prevented Imperial banners from storming the walls of Whiterun was the fact that Ti'laan still kept all of Whiterun's nobles prisoner, and the promise that should any action be taken against them, some of the provinces most influential people would be slaughtered.

Emrik reflected on these thoughts as he dumped the deer onto the cart with the other meat.

He stretched. "I think we're good to break camp," he said. "When you're read–"

The wind was knocked from his as Vestya tackled him to the rough dirt.

"What in Oblivion is the matter with you!" Emrik accused between wheezes.

"Shut up!" Vestya hissed.

Confused, Emrik rolled onto his stomach and followed Vestya's gaze.

Ahead of them was a group of travellers. They wore savage-looking garb made up of furs and bones. Strapped to their sides were unconventional blades and axes, while on their backs were bows made of sticks and bones.

"Forsworn…" Emrik whispered.

The duo lay on the ground waiting, hoping, that the Forsworn would pass by without discovering them.

The seconds felt like hours, and the minutes days, but at last the group of Reachmen had disappeared from view.

Emrik and Vestya waited some more moments before they slowly picked themselves up from the dirt.

Emrik brushed himself off.

"What are the Forsworn doing here?" He said absently. "I didn't know we'd travelled so far west."

"We haven't," Vestya replied darkly. "They're coming east."

"But… why?"

Vestya shrugged. "A bandit kingdom rises in the centre Skyrim. That's enough hope for any renegade."

Emrik waited some moments, mulling the prospect of a growing Forsworn army over.

"We should break camp and return to Whiterun," Vestya said.

"Yes," Emrik nodded. "Yes we should."

* * *

It took some hours to get back to Whiterun.

In the last two months the city had changed dramatically. The city walls were lined with wooden spikes, and some boardwalks and balconies had been built on the outer walls to host more lookouts.

Just above the gate was a wooden frame, and hanging from that wooden frame were the mangled and mutilated bodies of the bandits who had opposed Ti'laan's rule. Some had even challenged him to combat, and Ti'laan had beaten them all with just his hands. No one survived for longer than a minute.

Emrik and Vestya reined their horses near the stables and greeted Darrius, who had been charged with operating the toll road. Darrius was less than delighted with this prospect. He made up for it by taking more of the toll to keep than was necessary.

"Compensation," he'd say simply.

Emrik saw a shadow flitter by out of his peripheral vision as he fed an apple to his horse. He knew what it was, but he waited.

He felt rather than saw the young boy sneak up behind him. He waited some more, making sure to not alert the boy that he knew.

When he was sure the boy was reaching for his pockets, he spun around and grasped his wrist.

"Know who you're robbing before you rob them, Stefan," Emrik said with a smirk.

The young Imperial boy wrenched his hand free from Emrik's gasp and laughed.

"It's good to see you, Emrik," he said lightly.

"What's been happening over the last few days?"

Stefan shrugged. "Nothing much. Ti'laan killed another betrayer."

"I thought I saw another body hanging there," Emrik said absently.

"Hey Emrik," Vestya called.

Emrik turned and saw the Bosmer woman with the massive form of Krole unpacking the cart of its dead animals.

"Care to lend a hand?"

"I'll get there," Emrik assured.

Vestya shook her head, but smiled.

The two had been spending a lot more time together over the last few weeks. Nothing had developed, but Emrik couldn't help but think that maybe…

"My brother has been in the kings ear while you've been gone," Stefan practically snorted, interrupting his thoughts.

"Sounds like Ryann," Emrik agreed.

"Yep," Stefan said.

"He hasn't...?" Emrik let the question hang in the air.

"No," Stefan said, gingerly brushing his fingers against a purple-yellow bruise on his shoulder. "Not recently, at least."

"I guess that's good news," Emrik tried.

Stefan only grunted.

Emrik felt someone's eyes burning into him. He looked up to one of the lookouts and his eyes met Ryann's.

"You should probably go Stefan," Emrik said firmly.

Stefan looked at Emrik and then to Ryann, before shrugging and bounding off.

Vestya rested a hand on Emrik's shoulder.

"What was that about?" She asked.

Emrik sighed with exasperation. "Nothing. Nothing important, at least."

He turned to face Vestya.

"We finished unpacking the cart. You missed out," the woman said.

"What a shame," Emrik said sarcastically.

Vestya laughed and elbowed him playfully.

"I'm going to tell Ti'laan about the Forsworn," he said.

Vestya nodded. "I'll catch up with you later, then. I hear there's a new shipment of ale in at the Bannered Mare."

"Sold," Emrik said.

The two briefly hugged and parted ways.

Emrik made his way up the pathway that lead to Whiterun's main gates, occasionally stopping to swap small talk with some of the bandits he knew by name.

He looked up again at the bodies hanging from the frame, and was almost shocked at what he saw, like he was every time.

Some of the formerly alive betrayers had only sustained missing limbs and vicious wounds in their battle with Ti'laan, others had been mutilated beyond the recognition of being at all human. Hanging from one of the ropes was half a body. As Emrik remembered it, Ti'laan had torn this particular betrayer in half.

He was about to enter the city when he was caught on the shoulder and spun around, only to find himself face-to-face with Ryann.

Ryann looked at Emrik with what could only be disgust and hatred.

"I know what you're trying to do, Emrik," he said harshly. "You're trying to have me killed. Turn my brother against me!"

Emrik calmly brushed Ryann's hand from his shoulder.

"I don't have to turn your brother against you," Emrik said evenly. "You're doing that yourself."


	6. Chapter 6

Ti'laan felt as if he spent too much time in the war room in Dragonsreach. For days at a time he would pour over maps, letters, reports, documents of all kinds, and today was one of those days.

At times Ti'laan thought that being a king cost more time than it was worth, but he quickly dashed those thoughts and turned his mind to more important matters.

Ti'laan studied a map of Skyrim intently, drawing with coloured ink around the areas that he controlled, and drawing with different colours the areas controlled by others: Forsworn, bandits, and the Empire itself.

In the corner, as he always was, Guraag the Bleeder sat with his feet resting on the table, his battle axe by his side.

Ti'laan felt a presence behind him, but refused to turn.

"What is it?" He asked with a drone.

There was a squeak, then someone cleared their throat.

"Forgive my intrusion, king, but I have –"

"News from the Sandros Clan, I know," Ti'laan finished for the man, turning and leaning easily against the table. "Well?" the lizard prompted.

The man cleared his throat. "Sandros refuses your invitation, king."

"What?!"

In an instant Ti'laan was in front of the man, with a webbed hand gripping his throat tightly.

The man choked and spluttered, grasping weakly at Ti'laan's hands.

Ti'laan scowled and tossed the man against the opposite wall. He hit it with a crash that sent furniture and ornaments tumbling.

"P-Please, king," the man stammered. "He said that should you force the offer on him he will be forced to take action."

"Forced to take action!" Ti'laan roared before laughing harshly. "Who is Sandros to think he can defeat the might of _my_ kingdom?"

"You're right, king, of course you're right," the man continued frantically. "Perhaps if I had more time, I could convince Sandros to change his mind."

"Oh, no," Ti'laan said quietly, caressing the mans face. "I already gave you time, and then I gave you more time after that. I'm afraid your usefulness to me has expired."

The man sat in silence as the links connected in his mind. His eyes widened as what Ti'laan was saying dawned on him.

"No, king, I beg of you!"

"I am sorry," Ti'laan whispered.

The mans tortured screams echoed throughout Dragonsreach as Ti'laan dug his clawed thumbs into the mans eyeballs.

He buried his thumbs to the hand, and with a grunt tore the mans head from his body. With a cry of fury, Ti'laan lifted the bodiless head up and broke it in two, letting the blood within the skull spill onto him.

Ti'laan discarded the two halves of the skull and licked his lips ruefully, tasting the blood of the man that had once followed him… and failed him.

"Take the body and hang it from the frame above the gate," he instructed Guraag.

"There is no room for another body," the Orc said.

"Then plant the corpse on a pike and stick it in the ground by the main road," Ti'laan snapped.

Guraag nodded wryly before moving off, dragging the headless body in tow.

When he was alone Ti'laan took a deep breath and ran his hand over his head, his palm passing over the small horns adorned at the back of his skull.

Absently, he picked up a handful of letters and began rifling through them. They were all addressed to him, of course, some detailing acceptance of invitations to Whiterun, others rejecting those invitations. Ti'laan opened a returned letter from the College of Winterhold. As he read the letter his anger grew and flared.

"Grahh!" Ti'laan smashed his fist down on the table. Wood splintered as a spiderweb of cracks drew themselves across the woodwork.

Ti'laan regained himself and breathed. His eyes drifted over the documents on his desk once more until they settled on an envelope bearing a familiar insignia: that of the Aldmeri Dominion.

His mind raced. He hadn't contacted the Aldmeri Dominion. But if they're contacting him, it could either mean that they desire war, or –

Someone cleared their throat respectfully. Ti'laan turned and saw Emrik, standing formally with his hands behind his back.

Emrik nodded a greeting.

The lizard smiled.

"At last," he said, spreading his arms. "Someone with sense comes to see the king. How was your hunting trip?"

"Prosperous, king," Emrik said. "Vestya and I secured enough meat to feed a quarter of the city for some days."

Ti'laan chuckled. "If only the other hunting parties were as effective as you and that Wood Elf."

Emrik waited for some moments, unsure of how to proceed.

Ti'laan sensed this. "What can I do for you, Emrik?"

"Something came up during the hunting trip," Emrik began. "Something I believe requires attention."

"What would that be?"

"The Forsworn have been seen coming further east. They are growing bolder, perhaps even stronger. They may be staging an attack."

"Oh, yes, I'm aware of their activities," Ti'laan said matter-of-factly.

"You know?"

"Of course," Ti'laan said. "I gave them permission to use tracts of land within the hold, a show of good faith."

"Good faith?" Emrik asked, confused. "Why?"

"The Forsworn are powerful allies to have," Ti'laan explained. "Of course, they're not our allies, per say. Not yet."

Emrik opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

"You know, Emrik," Ti'laan began. "I'm glad you came to see me. I have a task for someone who shows your level of competence and initiative."

"With all due respect, king, I don't feel ready for another hunting trip just now," Emrik interjected.

Ti'laan laughed. "No, no, of course not. Tell me," Ti'laan lowered his voice and placed a hand on Emrik's shoulder. "How would you like to serve you king in expanding his kingdom?"

Thought etched itself across Emrik's features. Ti'laan watched him with contained expectation.

"I would be honoured, king," the Nord said.

Ti'laan clapped the man on the shoulder. "Very good! Report here at midmorning tomorrow and I'll tell you all of the details."

"Yes, king," Emrik said, bowing deeply.

"Oh, and Emrik?"

"Yes, king?"

"You may want to learn the arts of fire magics," the lizard said with a sly grin. "Your sword may prove ineffective against the enemies you may face."

Emrik raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He bowed, and took his leave.

* * *

**A/N: **Hello all of you groovy people. I feel like some context at this point would be good. Just so you all know (in case you haven't figured it out) the Imperials won the Skyrim Civil War, and the Dragon Crisis has not, I repeat, has _not _happened.

This chapter and the last chapter have really been 'filler chapters' to get from one awesome point in the story to the other, but I'm hoping you guys are enjoying it all the same.

I only plan on putting this notes here when I feel they are needed, otherwise I'll keep all of the note-writing to a minimum. Also, the only reason chapters have been frequent thus far is because it's a long weekend and it's one of those rare occasions where I don't have homework, so don't be disappointed when chapters start to spread out of time periods longer than a few days.

Otherwise, thank you all and I'll see you for chapter seven!


	7. Chapter 7

Ti'laan had decided that it was time to send a message to the other bandit clans of Skyrim. He would not be refused, he would not be opposed, and he would _not _be threatened.

He kept his plans secret, telling Guraag to take control for the days until he returned, instructing the Orc to slaughter any would-be usurpers in ways that would eradicate any thoughts of upheaval within the kingdom of Whiterun.

The lizard rode on a horse he had stolen the previous day from a merchant who was either dumb or bold enough to travel through Whiterun, thinking he'd make it from one border to another without a hitch.

It was much to the merchant's surprise and displeasure that he had come face-to-face with the one and only Bandit King. Ti'laan smirked as he remembered the mans pleas for mercy, right before the Argonian sunk his fangs into the merchants throat and stole his horse, who seemed none the wiser as to the death of its previous owner.

It was Ti'laan's second day of riding, and he believed that soon he would arrive at his destination. Not for the first time, Ti'laan's mind wandered back to the morning of his departure.

As he instructed, Emrik had arrived early, eager to hear what his king had in store for him. Ti'laan had told him little, but had directed him west to meet with a contact within the stone city of Markarth. Emrik took his leave to make preparations after that, and Ti'laan made to open the letter addressed to him from the Aldmeri Dominion. Again, he was interrupted before he could do so. An all-in brawl in the Plains District required his attention. So, Ti'laan left the letter to assess the situation.

Ti'laan, once again, thought of Emrik. The task he had in store for him he believed the Nord to be fully capable of, and as such he didn't worry.

A towering fortress cast its shadow over Ti'laan, bringing his mind back to the present. He had arrived.

Ti'laan slowly rode the horse off the road and into the nearby undergrowth, where he reined the stallion and sat, watching the movement of the fort.

The Sandros Clan had apparently set up their main base of operations at Fort Amol, within Eastmarch. They had driven out the conjurers that normally resided there with brute force of numbers and had been building power ever since.

Ti'laan scoffed.

He wouldn't call it _power. _If they had power they would have made a move on Windhelm by now. But nevertheless, the clan had built themselves up over the last few weeks to host a respectable force of almost fifty men. Sandros, their leader, was a High Elf, but unlike the other, more intelligent of his kind, Sandros was built like an Orc and had the wit of a Skeever. Sandros was no thinker, and that is what Ti'laan believed would win him this encounter.

The Argonian settled in, being sure to keep a watchful eye on the fort. He noted the movements of the shadows on the battlements, the sluggishness of the lookouts, the drunken roars of the bandits within.

Even though Ti'laan believed his victory to be inevitable, he was no fool, and most certainly didn't have a death wish. He would take this fort his way, and that meant waiting out the hours until nightfall.

* * *

When night came, Ti'laan was ready. He'd spent the last three hours watching the Sandros Clan at Fort Amol, moving with unmatched stealth and caution to a different vantage point every half hour.

Ti'laan had a plan ready in his mind, and if his hunch proved correct, he would be in and out of the Fort within twenty minutes. Still, Ti'laan expected the worst. It had been some years for him since one of his plans had failed, but the vampire knew more than to assume too much confidence.

He made his way to his chosen entry point: a sturdy tree that had a branch situated a few feet above the battlements. Ti'laan waited at the base of the trunk, watching the lookout above. Time passed until the lookout decided the night was empty and moved on. Ti'laan counted three beats before he gripped the wood and began to climb.

When he got to the branch he looked up and down the battlements. Satisfied that no one was coming, he dropped from the branch and into the fort.

He landed with a barely audible _thump _and immediately crouched, reducing how much of his body could actually be seen.

The battlements and most of the fort were cloaked in blackness. When Ti'laan had come to the conclusion that Sandros wasn't a thinker, he was correct, and the lack of torches was his evidence. The High Elf obviously didn't have much respect for the safety of light, which only played in the Argonian's favour.

Calling upon his powers of the night, Ti'laan's eyes began to glow with pale orange light, and it was as if the darkness was suddenly alight with the brightness of the sun. Using his vampire sight, Ti'laan could make view the world of night as if it were the day.

Ti'laan scanned the fort for signs of traps or enemies, and was not at all surprised to see that traps were non-existent and the amount of men out on patrol was pitiful.

Ti'laan shook his head and snuck his way along the battlements. He found a ladder and deftly scaled down it onto the ground. On ground level there were two bandits, both of which were preoccupied cooking a hare over the fire.

Ti'laan hid in the shadows and waited. There was a possibility, however small, that these two would block his escape. They had to die.

Ti'laan rapped his knuckles against the stone wall behind him and waited.

"What was that?" One of the bandits said.

"It's probably nothing," the other replied. "But you should go check it out."

"Why me?"

"Because it's _your _fault that we're out here on guard duty."

The first bandit grumbled and rose from her place by the fire. She walked lazily over to where Ti'laan was crouched. The Argonian sank deeper into the shadows as the girl came within three paces of him.

She looked around without seeing anything.

"There's nothing here," she called back to her friend.

But there was.

In a fraction of a second Ti'laan's iron-clad hand shot from the shadows like a hissing snake and struck the bandit full in the face. There was a crunch as her nose broke, and blood began to flow in torrents down her face. Ti'laan didn't wait. He gripped her by her tunic and threw her hard against the wall. Another crunch sounded as ribs splintered, and Ti'laan swore he heard the _pop! _of one of the girls spinal discs rupturing. He rammed his fingers down into the girls' throat, bursting it open, bisecting her vocal chords and letting blood flow down into her lungs.

She choked for a few brief moments. And then… silence.

Her companion heard the struggle, however, and came over to investigate.

The time for subtlety was gone, so Ti'laan leapt from the shadows and shoved the second bandit onto the dirt floor.

The bandit picked himself up, but Ti'laan was quicker. He unsheathed the mans very own dagger and pressed it up against his throat.

"Where is your leader?" The Argonian growled.

With shaking hands, the man pointed to the glowing window at the top of one of the towers that stood proudly within the fort.

Ti'laan nodded and lowered the dagger.

The bandit breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short as Ti'laan drove the metal up behind the mans sternum and into his heart.

The second dead bandit of the night fell to the floor.

Ti'laan crept to the tower and put his hands to it, feeling the rough stone, the age of the brickwork. It was climbable.

It took him ten minutes, but Ti'laan took extra care, making sure to pick a path that followed the movements of the shadows and that would cause the less amount of noise.

Ti'laan reached for the windowsill and climbed into a room lit by a single torch. In the centre of the room was a desk, and behind that desk was a chair, and on that chair a High Elf sat, his eyes foggy from drink, his white hair in a ponytail, and a half-naked girl on his lap.

Both pairs of eyes turned to the intruder, who watched the situation with mild amusement.

Even though Sandros' mind was impaired by grog he seemed to know who his unwelcome visitor was, and his golden complexion visibly paled.

"You," he said.

"Me," Ti'laan confirmed.

"What are you doing here?" Sandros asked darkly, pushing the girl from his lap and standing.

"I'm here in hopes that we could discuss my invitation, Sandros," Ti'laan said, studying his claws mockingly.

"I've told you twice, _lizard_, I will not bow to the likes of you."

"That's racist."

With a roar, Sandros got his hands under the desk and hurled it at Ti'laan.

The action was unexpected, and even though Ti'laan's reflexes were excellent, he didn't have time to evade the wooden projectile. The desk hit him and he went down. He threw the desk off of him, but Sandros was there, picking him up, driving him into the wall of the room. Sandros threw punch after punch into Ti'laan's exposed belly, and Ti'laan retaliated, clawing at the Altmer's back, beating at him uselessly with his tail. He hissed, his fangs extending slightly as he dug his teeth into the back of Sandros' neck. The girl screamed.

Sandros backpedalled, releasing Ti'laan. His hands went to the back of his neck and came away sticky with blood. He roared again and charged, but Ti'laan was ready. He evaded the tackle and lashed out, catching his opponent on the side of the head. Sandros turned, somewhat disoriented, and charged again. Ti'laan stepped to the side and grasped the taller mans arm, using his own momentum to swing the Elf around and toss him face-first against the wall. Sandros didn't have time to strike again. Ti'laan gripped the High Elf's ponytail, stuck a knee into his back, and pulled.

Sandros screamed in agony as his hair was torn from his skull, taking much of the scalp with it. Ti'laan gave one last concerted effort and wrenched. The sound of tearing flesh replaced the Altmer's cries, and soon Ti'laan held the head of his foe, the spine still dangling from the neck.

Ti'laan looked to the headless corpse and then to the form of the girl on the floor. She had long since fainted.

Ti'laan barged open the door that led into the rest of the fort and was hit by the smell of alcohol and unwashed bodies. The Sandros Clan's drunken babbling subsided, and they looked to the lizard who had just appeared with confusion.

Ti'laan hoisted the head.

"This," Ti'laan said loudly, "was your leader. This is what happens to those who oppose me." He tossed the head into the crowd of bandits, most of who recoiled with terror.

"Friends, I do not wish to hurt you," Ti'laan continued. "I wish to offer you a place in my kingdom. Come to Whiterun and live prosperously under my rule. You can take what you desire: ale, women, gold… All I ask from you is your loyalty. You have nothing to fear from me."

He spread his arms. "Join me, and live like kings for the rest of your lives. Oppose me," his tone darkened, and the atmosphere in the room darkened with it. "And you will perish."

One by one, the bandits in the room fell to their knees.

* * *

Two days later, Ti'laan returned to Whiterun with a host of fifty bandits in tow. He noticed the heads and bodies of people and beasts on pikes as he entered the stables, and finally, the city, where he was welcomed with cheers from his people.

He met with Guraag in Dragonsreach later.

"I noticed the heads of wolves on pikes outside the city, my friend," Ti'laan said. "Tell me, when did we become savages?"

A primal noise came from the depths of Guraag's throat. It could have been a chuckle or a growl. "They're the heads of werewolves," the Orc stated.

"Ah, so the Companions made their play for Whiterun, then?"

Guraag nodded.

"How many did we lose?"

"Twenty men at the most."

"Did you at least kill them all?"

"All but one."

"Who?"

Guraag clicked his fingers and two bandits rounded the corner, a Nord woman with a tattooed face and auburn hair between them. She was tied, beaten, and gagged.

Ti'laan raised an eyebrow, but walked over to her. Using a claw, he slashed the gag around her mouth.

The woman took a heavy breath, and at last met Ti'laan's gaze, her eyes blazing with pure hatred.

Ti'laan stroked her cheek.

"My, my, you _are _beautiful," he said quietly, cruelly. He wrinkled his nose. "It's too bad you have the beast blood in you."

"Do not touch me, filth," the woman snapped.

Ti'laan raised an eyebrow. "Feisty. Perhaps your ego needs to be taken down a rung or two." He addressed the men holding her. "Take her to the beds in Jorrvaskr. Let her see the men who have desecrated the place. And tell them they can do what they wish with her."

The blood drained from the woman's face.

"Go!" Ti'laan snapped.

The bandits went, dragging the shocked woman between them. Her screaming for freedom started just before she exited Dragonsreach.

Ti'laan and Guraag stood in silence for some moments.

"There is one other thing," Guraag said at last.

"What would that be?"

"An Elf arrived just this morning, claiming to be a Thalmor Ambassador," Guraag said. "Says he's here to see you."

Ti'laan's heart was racing. "Well, where is he?"

Guraag jabbed a thumb in the direction of the former Jarl's (now Ti'laan's) sleeping chambers.

Quicker than Ti'laan would care to admit, he strode to the door, and entered.

* * *

**A/N: **Ok, that's the last chapter for a few days, maybe a few weeks, since school is still a thing. Also, I'm thinking of upping the rating from T to M. Do you guys think it's warranted?

Anyway, I know some of you wanted to see mention of the Companions, so I slipped them in. Sorry if it wasn't as grand as you'd hoped, but I have a vague plan for where I want this story to go, and the Companions just weren't part of that plan. But hopefully that gave some of you some closure.

Thanks again guys, all the best, I'll see you all later.


	8. Chapter 8

Blood and silver flow through Markarth.

They were some of the first words Emrik heard upon entering the infamous city of stone.

Said to have been built by the dwarves, Markarth was home to many of Skyrim's toughest soldiers. The city had seen much blood and much conflict and the scars of the Civil War were still present in the citizens of Markarth and the city itself.

It was apparent to Emrik upon arriving that Markarth were wary of visitors. He'd been harassed at the main gate and forced to prove that he wasn't working with the Forsworn. One of the city guard had demanded he remove his sword, a request Emrik forcefully denied. Two minutes later Emrik had bested the guard in a brawl and was henceforth allowed to wear his sword in the city.

Upon entering the city Emrik made a beeline straight for the inn, where he ordered a tankard of ale and drank willingly.

"The war was harsh here," Emrik stated.

The barkeep nodded. "Aye, it was. Now we make a living at a poor cost."

"What cost is that?"

"Blood and silver, friend. Blood and silver flow through Markarth."

With that thought in his mind, Emrik ordered another drink and sat, waiting.

Ti'laan had told him that a contact within the city would meet him, though he knew not who that was or how Ti'laan knew him.

_Of course, he has ties to the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves Guild, _Emrik thought, _and Divines know how long he's been walking this earth._

The question of Ti'laan's age had always interested Emrik, though he knew never to ask. The King was intelligent and cunning, and his way of handling situations were - while undeniably violent - planned and executed with finesse and ease. That kind of expertise suggested that the King had been alive for possible over a hundred years.

The sound of another soul entering the inn disturbed Emrik's thoughts. The door lingered open for a suspiciously long time before closing. The sound of footsteps echoed as they struck the floor, deliberately slowly. The barkeep became tense.

"I have to go and fill out some paperwork," he muttered, before hurrying off.

The rest of the bar looked on curiously at the newcomer.

With practiced skill Emrik casually took a sip from his drink, all the while being ready to spring into action.

The newcomer took a seat beside Emrik. A dark hood covered their features, but from their physique Emrik could tell they were male. Two daggers were strapped to the mans belt, and the bulge under his tunic suggested he had a weapon hidden. A quiver of bolts hung at the mans side and a crossbow was slung over his back.

Slowly, Emrik drew his sword slightly, letting the metal hiss against the leather.

"I wouldn't," the man said gruffly, his voice tinted with an accent that suggested he was from High Rock.

Emrik swallowed. "I would."

He lashed out, kicking the newcomers stool from beneath him. The newcomer saw the play coming however, and was already on their feet before Emrik had struck the seat. Standing, Emrik drew his blade and took a half-step backwards, sinking into an offensive position. The newcomer drew both of his daggers and lunged, slashing at Emrik with grace, a dance of steel and death. Emrik parried the blows, but some made it through, scratching his skin, causing him to bleed. He made a desperate swing and knocked one of the daggers from his opponents hand. He then stomped on the mans foot and shoved him back, causing him to drop the second dagger.

Emrik held out a flat palm and focused. In seconds a torrent of fire erupted from his hand, engulfing the man and burning him. Emrik began to sweat as his magicka reserves depleted.

At last the fire sputtered and died, leaving Emrik panting and sweating.

His opponent was huddled on the floor where he had been knocked, but apart from being singed was relatively unharmed. Before Emrim could react the man took his crossbow from his back and fired.

The bolt whizzed through the air and slammed into Emrik's shoulder, and he cried out in pain, cursing as his other hand went up to staunch the blood that was beginning to run from wound. His opponent made to reload his crossbow, but Emrik summoned his strength and hurled a nearby stool at the man.

The woodwork shattered on impact, stunning the man, giving Emrik enough time to bounce over and press his sword against the mans throat.

The man raised his hands slowly.

"Get rid of the weapon," Emrik said through heavy breaths.

The man tossed the crossbow away.

"And the other one."

The man slowly reached into his tunic and produced an iron mace, which he also threw out of arms reach.

"So I see our King sent someone competent to do his dirty work," the man said. "That's a relief."

"Who are you?" Emrik asked.

"I'm your contact, your rendezvous," the man said. "And I would personally feel more comfortable if you took this sword from my throat."

Emrik hesitated, but sheathed the sword. His hand went up to press his wound, and he winced.

"Sorry about that," the man said, picking himself up and dusting himself off. "I'll have you fixed before your task."

He removed his hood to reveal a Breton of all accounts. He had a face of perfect complexion and white teeth, green eyes and brown hair.

"You may call me Stern," the Breton said.

"Is that your real name?"

"Of course not," Stern said. "In our business it always helps to be a little cautious though. Come. Follow me. I'll get that bolt wound of yours fixed -"

"You mean the one that you gave me," Emrik winced.

"No hard feelings about that, right? It was part of the deal. I did it on our Kings command."

"Ti'laan told you to do this?" Emrik was almost shocked. Almost...

"Why of course!" Stern said, holding his arms out as if it were as obvious as the sun in the sky. "He needed to test your mettle. So did I. For the sake of the cause."

"And what _is _the sake of the cause?"

"Expansion, my good man. Expansion," Stern said. "As I said, follow me. We have a lot of details to discuss and, uh... Healing to attend to."

"Speak without riddles," Emrik said shortly. "Just tell me exactly what I have to do."

"Your King didn't say?" Stern said, amusement all too evident in his tone. "Why, you're going to have to get arrested."

* * *

At a house built into the rock face in Markarth's higher districts, Emrik drank a health potion gingerly as Stern ironed out the foundation of the plan. It was a plan Emrik was less than amused with, but for the sake of the kingdom it had to be done, he was assured.

Now Emrik stood in the centre of Markarth's markets, ready to execute the first stage of the plan.

He recalled what he had been told.

"Remember to look as if you don't want to get caught," Stern had told him. "It's important that the guards catch you without them thinking you're out to get arrested."

"Won't my behaviour be questioned?"

"Absolutely. That's why I recommend buying some food from one of the venders. Eat it, look sick, go crazy. They'll pin it to food poisoning."

"It's scary how much you've thought you've put into this."

"I didn't come up with this. Ti'laan did."

Emrik looked down to the venison and cheese pastry in his hand, and thinking nothing of it, ate it.

_It's the last meal you'll get in a while,_ he thought. _Enjoy it._

Emrik made sure he was fully visible to the guards as he ate the pastry. He chewed it for some time before keeling over and retching, coughing deliberately to get their attention.

He stood and shivered, trying to act as if possessed. With a shout Emrik drew his sword and plunged it into the person who was unlucky enough to be walking by at the time. That person happened to be the husband of the woman who had sold him the pastry.

In moments guards swarmed him as onlookers cried out in alarm and tried to assist the bleeding man on the stones.

Emrik injured some of their number before he was overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. He made a point to make jerking, wild swings with his blade, so as to keep with the act.

At last, Emrik's weapon was knocked from his hand and he fell to his knees.

"You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people. What say you in your defence?" One guard said.

"I submit. Take me to jail," Emrik said suspiciously quickly.

Although he couldn't see behind the helmet, he practically felt the guards cruel smile.

"Then it's off to Cidhna Mine with you."


	9. Chapter 9

The High Elf was tall. Almost threateningly so.

She wore the tell-tale black and gold robes of a Thalmor, as well as the lightly armoured and naturally arcane greaves and gloves that all the Thalmor wore. For many in Skyrim the sight of those robes inspired fear and unwarranted respect, but for Ti'laan the sight of those robes simply made him… nervous…

The she-elf had sharp and regal features, much like most of her kind. Like other Altmer she had a faint golden complexion of the skin, along with a tall and thin frame and long, dextrous fingers that Ti'laan didn't doubt could cast the magic that could well end his life.

He'd already come to the decision to speak intentionally vaguely until the High Elf made her intentions clear. That way he wouldn't reveal his plans, and he'd have time to act if she tried anything sneaky.

The she-elf looked up as a shirtless and slightly battered Ti'laan made his way deeper into the room. She stood from the chair she was sitting – _his _chair – and took some steps forward, bowing curtly.

"You must be the infamous Bandit King I've heard so much about," the elf said properly.

"That is yet to be seen," Ti'laan said, matching her tone.

"I don't wish to overstay my, uh… _welcome, _so I'll get straight to the point," she said before clearing her throat. "I am Elenwen, Thalmor Ambassador for Skyrim. It has come to the Empire's attention over the last few months that a bandit kingdom has risen at Skyrim's centre. It has also come to the Empire's attention that you are keeping some of Whiterun's most powerful people prisoner in their own castle. I'm sure you're aware that the only reason the forces of the Empire haven't marched on Whiterun yet is your threat to kill these people."

"If you're here to negotiate for their lives, then I'm afraid you're wasting your time," Ti'laan said evenly, crossing his arms casually.

Elenwen laughed lightly. "Oh, no, you do not understand, Your Highness. I am not here to negotiate with the lives on anyone be they man, mer, or beast. I simply come with a proposal, which I duly hope you will consider."

Ti'laan's interest was piqued, but he was disciplined enough to not let it show. Instead he spoke with a lazy, almost rude tone that hinted he had better things to do.

"What might that be?" He asked.

Elenwen's eyes sparked, obviously she wasn't used to being treated so lowly.

"I respectfully ask that you regard me with some degree of reverence and formality," she said forcefully.

Ti'laan's slit his eyes and they flashed orange. "I'll remind you, Ambassador, that you are within the walls of _my _kingdom. I respectfully _command _that you do not treat me with such blind insolence. Now, tell me of this proposal of yours, or you may leave and hope that my men do not kill you," he finished darkly.

The High Elf seemed to have shrunk at the threat, and the dark and unwavering tone that Ti'laan had taken on her.

She swallowed heavily. "Of – of course, Your Highness," she began. "As you no doubt know, the Empire and the Thalmor hold no favours with each other. Our activities have been debilitating to the Empire, to say the least, but their failure to at all prove that the Thalmor have been involved are what keeps this miserable continent from descending into anarchy and all out war."

"Then what do you want with my kingdom?" Ti'laan asked slowly.

"I understand you have trouble gathering food supplies to support all your men?"

Ti'laan nodded. "The only caravans that pass are those of the Khajiit traders, and they hardly sell conventional food."

Elenwen tried – and failed – for a warm smile. "The Thalmor offer you a chance to grow and to survive," she said. "The Aldmeri Dominion can work in secret to provide your kingdom with enough food to prosper. Not only that, but we will give you a chance to grow."

"How so?"

"Let's just say it would be awfully unfortunate if Riften had an accident that required Imperial soldiers to be pulled from Falkreath."

Ti'laan thought about it. "I refuse to take Falkreath," he said. "It's too close to the border. I won't risk my men to fight the Legion that would undoubtedly come."

"Then isn't it convenient that under a new agreement, a troop of Thalmor control the Pale Pass?"

Ti'laan sat in silence.

"But we offer you more than just Food and Falkreath," Elenwen continued. "We have ways of obtaining information and causing disturbances. In cooperation with us, you could rule over the entirety of Skyrim. Think about that, Your Highness."

And Ti'laan did. A Bandit Kingdom the size of a province? The idea was tempting, but the execution of it was unlikely at the very most. Unlikely alone, but perhaps with allies with the strength of the Thalmor…

"And what do you want in return?" Ti'laan asked.

"Nothing at all," Elenwen said quietly. "All we ask is that you don't reveal our allegiance, and that when the time comes for the Aldmeri Dominion to take its rightful place at the head of the Empire you support us should we need it."

Ti'laan sighed. The likeliness of the Aldmeri Dominion rising against the Empire and retaking the throne of Tamriel was nigh on impossible. But Ti'laan was a vampire – immortal! – and empires had risen and fallen in his time.

"Do you drink?" the Bandit King asked.

"On occasion," Elenwen said, sitting back down in Ti'laan's chair, much to his displeasure.

The Argonian walked to a cabinet, and from it withdrew a bottle of Argonian Bloodwine and two glasses.

He pulled up a chair and a table near Elenwen and placed the two glasses down, pouring the alcoholic beverage into the glass closest to the she-elf.

He then went to a glass display case and, opening it, took a shining dagger with a golden hilt. He placed the dagger on the table, the hilt facing Elenwen.

"A ceremonial blade," Ti'laan said, gesturing towards it.

"What is it needed for?" Elenwen asked, though her voice hinted that she knew the answer.

"I'd be willing to bet my throne that the Thalmor of all organisations are aware of my affliction," Ti'laan said, the corners of his mouth curving upwards slightly. "As a show of good faith between my kingdom and the power of which you represent I propose you bleed into the glass."

Elenwen hesitated, but then took the dagger. She held her thin, golden arms over Ti'laan's glass and looked at him.

"Never been a fan of alcohol?" She said.

"Not today."

Elenwen slid the blade across her skin and Ti'laan registered the soft sound of splitting skin. He tried to control his hunger as the Altmer's blood dripped into the cup, slowly filling it.

"That's enough," Ti'laan said when the blood in the cup matched the level of wine in the other.

Elenwen dropped the blade and her fingers immediately began their dance of healing. Golden tongues of light drifted from her hands and landed softly on the cut in her arm, mending the injury.

Ti'laan lifted his glass, and Elenwen followed suit.

"Bound by blood, may our allegiance prove prosperous for us both," Ti'laan said formally.

Their glasses touched, and the two drank.

* * *

**A/N: **Hey guys, I know I said these would be few and far between but I have some things to say.

**1)** I'm sorry this chapter is another filler, but it's necessary and I wrote it during my legal studies class, so I think some of that reflects in the chapter.

**2)** I wrote this chapter _at school_ because I actually care that much, so there's that.

**3)** I've seen mention of the Dawnguard and the whole subject of how public Ti'laan's vampirism is, and while I completely agree that the Dawnguard and/or the Volkihar Clan would really be excellent for the story, it's not an arc I have planned. I haven't ruled out the possibility by any means, but right now it's not on the to-do list.

That's all from me guys, and I'll see you for chapter ten. (Double digits! Woo!)


	10. Chapter 10

When Emrik woke, it was with a throbbing in the back of his mind that would have been on par with a firebolt bouncing around inside his skull.

He sat up groggily and looked at where he was, trying to piece together the events of the previous day.

_Of course, _he thought. _I'm in Cidhna Mine._

Inside his cell he was surrounded by earthy walls. The cell was narrow and uncomfortable, even by prison standards. A thick-barred gate blocked Emrik from the rest of the mine, though outside he could see other prisoners toiling away with pickaxes while guards watched them like bone hawks.

Emrik soon came to realise that his clothes had been removed and replaced with rough garments that promoted itching. His bed wasn't much better: a wooden frame with a canvas mattress and no pillow.

A guard walked past as Emrik tried to clear his head. The guard noticed the awakened prisoner and stopped. She leant against the bars of the cell casually, mockingly, and addressed him.

"You can rot in here all you like prisoner," she said with the thick accent that was inherent to all Nords. "Cidhna Mine isn't like any other prison. You can't just wait for your sentence to finish up, oh no. You'll have to work like everyone else, earn your weight in silver, before the Jarl even _thinks _about letting you go."

The Nord laughed and continued on her patrol.

Emrik looked on as she walked away, a sneer painting his face.

He waited some moments before lurching upward from his bed. He went to the cell door and opened it carelessly, the ancient hinges creaking in protest.

The mine was bathed in the sickly orange glow of oil lanterns. The earth rose up around him on sides, and Emrik briefly felt a moment of taphephobia.

Guards lined the prison on wooden structures, watching the prisoners click and hack away at the earth around them with age-old pickaxes. The setup of the prison reminded him of some of the old bandit camps he'd seen before he'd met up with Ti'laan's clan.

"Stop gawking and get picking," a burly guard said from Emrik's side, thrusting a pickaxe into his hands.

Emrik briefly considered ramming the rusted metal into the guards' body. He figured he could kill half a dozen before he well and truly became a pincushion.

Holding in his frustration, Emrik made his way down to a spot of earth next to a malnourished, balding Imperial, and started mining.

He found the vein of silver ore easily, and with the strength he'd acquired from years of practicing with a sword and a boy, cut through the earth like it was soft clay.

He mined next to the man for some hours before he had an entire bucket of silver ore. He wiped his brow and went to pick up the bucket, then noticed that the Imperial prisoner had barely filled his at all.

Emrik looked around to make sure no guards' were looking. In a moment of compassion, he switched the buckets so that he had the barely filled one and the Imperial had the one filled with silver.

Emrik went back to work, hacking away at the earth, collecting silver from the walls and slowly filling his second bucket.

He heard a _clink _next to him and looked across, meeting the wide eyes of the Imperial who had not a moment before had hardly filled his bucket.

"Looks like you mined more than you thought," Emrik said, straining from the repetition of his task.

"I… I didn't do this," thee Imperial stammered. "I can't have."

"That bucket there begs to differ," Emrik replied, still mining.

"It was you," the Imperial said. "You did this for me. It had to be you!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, friend."

"This bucket here will make up my sentence," the Imperial said, both anguish and joy showing in his tired eyes. "Thank you. Thank you! Please, if there is anything I can do for you –"

"Actually," Emrik cut in. "There is something you can do."

The Imperial nodded. "Of course, of course, name it."

"I desire an audience with the King in Rags."

* * *

Later that night, Emrik lay awake in his cell.

In all truth, he didn't know if it were night or not. The light of the lanterns trapped the mine in a state of eternal twilight, but considering how tired and how hungry Emrik was, he believed it to be one or two hours before midnight. This, and the guards were beginning to get lazy.

He heard a soft rattle at his cell and looked up, noticing the scrawny figure of the Imperial man from earlier.

"Come on," he whispered sharply. "The guards have passed out from their drink, but they won't be gone for long."

Emrik hurriedly met the Imperial man at the door, and with all the stealth he could muster, followed him deeper and deeper into the mine.

They eventually came to a gate. A guard was stationed out the front, but he slept heavily.

"Make sure the guard doesn't wake," the Imperial said.

Emrik nodded and positioned himself behind the guard, ready to put him in a chokehold at the first sign of alertness.

The Imperial extracted from his footwraps a lockpick, and began going to work on the lock.

The minutes that followed were agonizingly slow, but finally the Imperial got through when the lock of the gate clicked open.

"Got it, let's go."

Emrik followed the Imperial down a narrow tunnel.

"Why is there another gate?" he asked.

"The more hardened criminals are kept deeper in the mine," the Imperial explained. "The only way out is the gate we just went through. This tunnel makes picking off prisoners easy if there's a riot."

_Of course, _Emrik thought.

At last they came to a cavern. The cavern was thrown in the glow of Magelights instead of torches, and all around prisoners were either mining or – to Emrik's surprise – drinking wine.

"You see that gate over there?" the Imperial pointed to a gate across from them.

It was being guarded by a mountain of an Orc, whose brutish war paint and yellowed tusks inspired some kind of fear in Emrik. However, Emrik knew, this Orc couldn't possibly be as frightening as Guraag.

"That's where your King in Rags resides," the Imperial said. "Come. Follow me."

Emrik followed the Imperial as he stalked across the cavern.

They drew the gazes of the other prisoners until they came face to face with the Orc, who looked down on them with amusement.

"The guards didn't let you two in," he said.

The Imperial shook his head, and gestured Emrik to step forward.

Emrik did so.

"I desire an audience with the King in Rags," he said. "I come on behalf of my king, Ti'laan."

"Ah, the so called 'Bandit King'. Madanach assumed he'd come sooner or later," the Orc laughed.

Emrik let the Orc laugh.

"Ok, I'm sure Madanach would be more than happy to see you," the Orc said at last.

"Good," Emrik said, going to step forward.

"On _one _condition," Madanach said, putting a hand out to stop him.

Emrik sighed. "What's his condition."

The Orc pulled a shiv from his underarm and held it out. "Kill the Imperial."

Emrik almost gasped in shock, but held his composure. He looked across to the Imperial, who had become clammy and nervous.

"N-no. You can't, y-you won't… Would you?" The Imperial stammered.

Emrik looked from the quaking Imperial to the calm Orc, holding the shiv in his outstretched hand.

"I'm a free man tomorrow. You can't do this to me, you just can't," the Imperial said, breaking down into tears.

Emrik shut his eyes, and not for the first time, cursed the choices he'd made to wind up in this situation. He took the shiv from the Orc and forced himself to meet the eyes of the man he was about to kill.

"I'm truly sorry," he said weakly.

Before the Imperial could react, Emrik rammed the cold, jagged blade into his throat. The Imperial gargled, a look of pleading on his face as his lifeblood seeped out from the wound in his neck.

Emrik withdrew the blade and plunged it into the Imperials skull in the hopes that the Imperials death would be quick. He withdrew the blade and handed it back to the Orc. The body of the Imperial collapsed to the floor, bleeding and lifeless.

_He was going to go free tomorrow. To a wife, to a child, _he thought. _But it had to be done._

"Very good," the Orc said, smiling cruelly. "I'm sure the King in Rags would be happy to see you now you've proven your worth."

He opened the gate, and Emrik entered.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for being so patient with me guys. School is still a thing for a few more days, but the holidays are coming up soon so I'm hoping for some free time to write. Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and yay for ten chapters!**


	11. Chapter 11

The streets of Falkreath sang the songs of death.

The scent of blood and smoke was rich in the air, and remains of bodies and animals littered the streets.

Houses burned, women cried, men were slaughtered, and amongst it all was Ti'laan and his group of bandits.

Since their arrival, they had only lost one man to a lucky arrow shot by a guard. The death of their comrade only inspired the invaders to fight harder, and in a shocking amount of time they had either killed or driven out most of the residents of Falkreath.

The guards and some select men and women stayed to fight, in the hopes that they might protect their homes and their families. But their aspirations proved fruitless, as Ti'laan and his bandits cut them down mercilessly.

Ti'laan himself fought like a demon from Oblivion, lashing out with fists and claws. Biting, chewing, using his tail to impale his enemies.

The end of his tail was adorned with a polished, Skyforge steel blade. His encounter with Sandros had proved to him that he needed his tail to be more effective, to act as a fifth limb in battle situations such as this.

The blade was forged – unwillingly – by Eorlund Gray-Mane.

Ti'laan had discussed with Guraag the possibility of taking Falkreath, off the Thalmor's advice. Guraag had been in agreement: aggressive expansion would broaden Ti'laan's influence over Skyrim, which would provide more opportunity for black market trade and mining resources – an industry Ti'laan was willing to invest his men into.

Ti'laan had gone to the bandit smiths at the Skyforge and requested a blade for his tail to be created. It had taken days, but at last a blade had been created.

When Ti'laan tried it, it broke on the first strike. In anger, Ti'laan had eviscerated one of the smiths and had left him to bleed out on the stone, so as to teach his subjects that one does _not _disappoint the king.

He went to the Dragonsreach Dungeon and checked in on the prisoners. They were gradually getting thinner, gradually letting go of their lives, but Ti'laan kept them fed enough for them to stay alive. For these prisoners were the only reason the Empire hadn't razed Whiterun to the ground.

He met Eorlund in his cell and told him what he wanted.

Eorlund spat in his face. This arrogant defiance would prove to be the end of the Nords in future, and Ti'laan hoped he lived long enough to see this future.

Eorlund had made it blatantly obvious that he didn't want to assist the Bandit King, and so it was with a heavy heart that Ti'laan unchained one of the Jarl's children and slowly, slowly, drew a claw up along the child's arm and towards his throat, leaving a deep and painful gash as it went.

The Jarl, afraid and furious, begged Ti'laan to stop and shouted at Eorlund.

"Give him anything he wants!" The Jarl demanded. "I will not let _anyone _play with the lives of my children."

Ti'laan hid a grin of victory, and led a chained Eorlund to the Skyforge.

Ti'laan told the blacksmith what he wanted, and – reluctantly – the blacksmith made it.

To test the blade, Ti'laan swung at Eorlund's leg, severing it easily.

Eorlund cursed and fell to the ground, suddenly without a leg. He lay on the cobblestone, bleeding out.

"Get over yourself," Ti'laan scoffed. "You're a blacksmith. A missing leg won't impede your work."

Some days later Ti'laan had assembled a force of several hundred bandits, and with sharp weapons, sharp senses, and even sharper tongues, the clan marched through Skyrim unopposed until they reached Falkreath.

The High Elf had been true to her word. As the force passed the Pale Pass they spied the glittering elven armour that denoted the presence of the Thalmor. Ti'laan was almost sure he could spot Elenwen among them, watching the troop of bandits march along the province.

That is what had led them to this moment.

Ti'laan stood among the bodies of what used to be the citizens of Falkreath and watched as they began to pile up. The sight of so much death, so much blood, inspired a thirst in Ti'laan.

An old Nord charged him, brandishing a pitchfork.

With a swipe of his tail, Ti'laan cut through the man at the waist. The body hit the ground, intestines and blood spilling from the oversized wound and glistening in the light of many fires. The only thing keeping the two halves together was the spinal cord, which was visible for the world to see.

Resisting his urge to stop and drink, Ti'laan stepped over the body and continued on his route to the Jarl's Longhouse, leaving a trail of carnage and chaos behind him.

Guards had been ordered to protect the door of the Longhouse at all costs, probably ordered to kill any who would try to enter, Ti'laan assumed.

Judging by the two guards who stood ready by the door, Ti'laan also assumed that his original assumption was correct.

Ti'laan calmly walked up the steps.

"Hey, fellas," he said with a devilish smile.

The two guards drew their swords.

"Step away from the Longhouse, lizard," one of the guards growled.

Ti'laan tilted his head to the side. "Really? A whole war going on in this little city and you're asking me to step away from the _Longhouse_? Not the women, the children, or the countless citizens that me and my men have killed? Tell me, do any of you understand that I could kill every runt in this city and your Jarl would be left with nothing to rule? Hm?"

The guards said nothing.

Ti'laan sighed. "I guess the City Guard are as hopeless with thinking as they are at defending their own city."

One guard roared and charged Ti'laan, sword held back, poised, ready to dart out at any given time and strike.

The guard thrust forward with his sword. Ti'laan calmly stepped out of the way.

"Now that's no way to treat a guest," he said.

His hand shot out, the flat of his palm striking the guard in the nose, causing it to crumple in within the skull and bleed. The guard cried out and swung his blade in a wild arc. Ti'laan caught the blade with the metal of his gauntlet and pulled it from the guards grip. He backhanded the guard, causing him to crumple to his knees. Ti'laan gripped the guard by the head and twisted, causing his neck to break with a _snap _and a _pop. _

The second guard, undeterred by his comrades defeat, rushed Ti'laan and tried to strike him with an overhead slash. The move was sloppy, and Ti'laan easily grabbed the mans arm and, with a push of his hand, broke it at the elbow, causing his radius to protrude from a hole in his skin. The guard howled in pain, and Ti'laan did nothing to help him. Instead, he gripped the protruding bone and yanked it, tearing it from the flesh and skin until in his arm he held the bones that formerly made up the guards hand. The guard weakly swung another sword strike. Ti'laan used the bones to defend, and the blade splintered them. Ti'laan saw his opportunity and thrust the pointed bone into the fleshy part of the guards' neck, causing blood to well up at the wound and block off his windpipe. He left the man to choke on his own blood, and the bone from his own arm.

Ti'laan flung open the doors of the Longhouse and spread his arms as if he were greeting an old friend.

"Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath," he shouted with mocking enthusiasm. "How privileged I am to finally make your acquaintance. I must say, the welcoming party was lacklustre, but if there's one thing I can commend your guards on – specifically the two you stationed at your front door – it's their tenacity."

A half-dozen guards stood in front of the Jarl, who was standing before his throne. The guards held bows that were aimed at Ti'laan, and ready to fire from those bows were flaming arrows.

"Bandit King," Siddgeir said cockily. "You come to _my _home, slaughter _my _people, and expect to just walk away?"

"I don't intend to do any such thing," Ti'laan amended.

Siddgeir slit his eyes. "So you desire my throne?" He said darkly. "The Empire would pay me thousands to put you down."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"Pah!" Siddgeir spat. "Men! Fire at will."

The guards drew their drawstrings back.

"I wouldn't," Ti'laan warned.

He sensed them taking aim, looking to plant the arrow in the weakest part of his body.

"I'm giving you the chance to walk away," Ti'laan tried. "All I want is your Jarl."

One of the men shot.

The arrow flew from the bow and sped towards the Argonian.

Ti'laan caught the arrow and hissed as the heat of the fire came so close to his skin.

"Now you've done it," he muttered.

He snapped the arrow in his hand and darted forward, weaving in and out of the trails of fire the arrows were leaving as they were each shot from their bows.

Ti'laan leapt on top of one guard, knocking him down, and mauled his face with his claws. Another guard came to try to be a hero, but Ti'laan's tail lashed out and impaled him. Two more guards drew swords and ran, and Ti'laan flung the impaled guard at them, tripping them over. He jumped over their bodies and landed on the shoulders of another guard, who crumpled under the Argonian's weight. One of the guards had kept with their bow, and fired an arrow. Ti'laan heard it coming and hoisted the fallen guard up, using him as a human shield as the point of the arrow busted through his armour and left a clean hole in his chest. Ti'laan turned back to the two guards he'd tripped and ran at them. They each swung at him with their swords, but he dropped to his knees and slid under the blades. He stood and turned, facing the guards. His tail flicked out, stabbing one of the guards through the chest. The impaled guard dropped his sword, and Ti'laan caught it. He parried the other guards blade and thrust his own deep into the guards sternum, thus removing the fifth enemy from the fray. He sensed an arrow coming and rolled out of the way. He rose to his knees and opened his mouth. His vampiric fangs extended slightly and twin streams of poison shot from them, catching the archer in the eyes. The archer squealed as the venom at away at his eyes, turning them to nothing but sludge. The poison burned through the guards skull until it began to run from his mouth, turning red with the blood that came with it.

Ti'laan waited patiently for the guards cries of agony to end, and then he turned to the Jarl, who was white and shaking on his throne.

"What do you want?" Siddgeir stammered. "Anything, I'll give you _anything. _Gold, women, name it."

Ti'laan grinned his twisted grin. "I want Falkreath," he said. "And your blood."

In a blink he was in front of the Jarl, hurling him from his throne and pressing the back of his neck against Ti'laan's knee. The Jarl gasped and spluttered, clawing childishly at the Argonian's face, until finally the neck tore, and what would be a fountain of blood spewed from the top.

Ti'laan drank deeply to commemorate this victory over Falkreath, letting the young Jarl's blood spill into his open maw. He savoured every taste, every drop, and at the end he exited the Longhouse to be met with a triumphant roar from his men.

They had won another part of Skyrim.

* * *

**A/N: Hello all, I hope this chapter filled a gap that chapter 10 didn't. Thanks again for being patient, admittedly I could've been more productive but with school and some other projects I really needed some time for myself.**

**I really hate that I'm doing this, but I need to self-advertise. **

**One of the projects that I'm working on is a fic called **_**The Damned and the Fallen. **_**It's set in the Elder Scrolls universe, and it's a collaboration project between myself and a fellow author. It's a work in progress, but we **_**really **_**need some constructive criticism to help grow. We've uploaded three chapters already, and are in the process of writing the seventh (yes, the seventh) so it's not like you guys have nothing to go off. You've been so helpful with this fic, and I really need you again, so thanks.**

**Also, if you can be bothered, I'm writing a collaborative story with some of my friends called **_**Oh No! Zombies! **_**That story is over on my FictionPress account which you can access via my profile, and while I've only uploaded two chapters we've already written twenty-one. It's not meant to be taken seriously, it's really just a thing we've been doing for fun, but if any of you can check that out I'd really appreciate it.**

**This has gone on for far longer than I anticipated, so I'll leave you to the other parts of your life. Quick recap: chapter productivity is down due to senior school, but I fully intend to finish this fic. So don't go away. **


	12. Chapter 12

To say the Emrik was unimpressed with the King in Rags was somewhat of an understatement, but as soon as the elderly man turned his eyes upon Emrik, all doubts as to the Kings' power and influence were washed away.

"Your Highness," Emrik said with some formality, bowing slightly. "I –"

"Come in the name of the self-proclaimed Bandit King," Madanach said tiredly, turning back to his desk and parchment. "I have eyes and ears everywhere in the Reach. Even in a cell, I know _everything _that happens in my kingdom."

Emrik hid his surprise at Madanach's blunt statement of the truth, but quickly realised that it only made sense that the King in Rags would know the occurrences of the Reach.

He cleared his throat. "I'm here in the hope that we can discuss a treaty between our kingdom and yours."

Madanach sighed. "As impressed as I am at how quickly your bandit kingdom has grown, the Forsworn have no intentions of forging alliances. Especially not while their king is still in a cell."

"Then let's get you out of here!" Emrik proclaimed quickly.

The King in Rags chuckled. "I can get out whenever I want. Are you _really _that naïve? A prison break isn't just about escaping the prison, it's about timing and execution. I have a plan, I'm just waiting for the ideal moment." He then looked at Emrik quizzically. "But I suppose… if you made it here without alerting the guards, perhaps this is the greatest opportunity that will present itself for years…" He trailed off.

Emrik stood silently, completely aware that anything he might say could break Madanach's trail of thought and result in them not escaping as soon as he desired.

"It's decided," Madanach said at last, standing from his desk and pushing past Emrik. "Follow me."

He led Emrik back the way he'd come, through a a simple tunnel and to the gate where the Orc still stood guard. Although the he'd only seen the Orc some minutes ago, Emrik couldn't help but wonder if the beast ever slept. He immediately thought of Guraag and might have smirked at the similarity, if this situation was any less serious.

"My King," the Orc nodded, trying to hide both amusement and surprise.

Several people who were sleeping or resting lamely amongst the space were quickly aroused and alerted at the presence of Madanach. His presence here must have meant something significant was bound to occur. It was obvious that the King in Rags controlled his people through both respect and fear.

_Much like Ti'laan, _Emrik thought to himself. _No wonder he wanted to reach out to this man._

"My friends," Madanach addressed the small gathering. "The time has come for the king to return, and lead the Forsworn against the rest of the Reach. You may follow me with undivided loyalty, or stay here to rot and, eventually, die." Emrik said nothing as Madanach looked evenly at each of his followers in turn. There were five of them, including the Orc. The others were human races, mostly. Some resembled elves, so Emrik assumed they were Bretons.

Madanach spoke. "Follow me." He made off to a part of the mine that Emrik didn't know existed. The troop of them travelled unnoticed by the still unconscious guards, and when they finally arrived at what looked like any other dirt wall, Madanach gestured for the Orc. "Borkul."

The Orc stepped forward and dug his fingers into the wall, tearing at it until the dirt collapsed to the ground, revealing a tunnel.

Madanach stepped into the tunnel without waiting for the others to follow. Borkul went second, and a human went third. Emrik ducked in after her, and was immediately astonished at what he saw.

It is said that Markarth used to belong to the dwemer before their mysterious disappearance from the face of Tamriel. While Men now controlled the city, and would have others believe it was they who constructed it, a labyrinth of dwarven ruins rested beneath the city. Emrik had just stepped into such ruins. The ceilings were high and the stone fine, decorated with coppers and bronzes. Steam drifted eerily from grates that lined the roof and the floor, and the ominous sound of moving metal could be heard echoing throughout.

Madanach crouched to the floor and held out a hand. The woman amongst them gave him a shiv, and he used it to begin sketching on the floor their path of escape. Emrik watched intently as the King in Rags traced rooms and corridors, before drawing a line that would lead them from where they were to their exit - their freedom.

"Come." Madanach stood, giving the shiv back to the woman. He made off again, his subjects and Emrik in tow.

He led them through a myriad of corridors and rooms, each one more decorated and regal than the last. Twice did he crouch to draw his map again, making edits as he needed with growing frustration. No one spoke, but Emrik could taste the anticipation in the air. He couldn't deny how infectious it was; he felt it too. Even though he'd spent a short time in prison, his eagerness to return to what was familiar was unparalleled.

They continued on their path. It felt as though they were delving deeper into the bowels of this ruin, and Emrik kept a feeling of growing anxiety at bay as they continued to move downward with little intent of moving up.

He paused. "What was that?"

Everyone looked at him, not with worry or concern, but with scorn. "Looks like someone's getting a little jumpy," one of the humans jeered.

"No, I'm serious." Emrik listened, his ears twitching as he tried to collect what he'd heard. "Something... It sounds like something's coming this way."

"Automatons." Madanach scowled.

Soon everyone could here it. The rattle of metal on metal, fast and deliberate. Something was undoubtedly approaching.

A grate above them burst open in a torrent of steam, and from it spilled half a dozen mechanical spiders the size of dogs. Instead of showing fear, the Forsworn took combat stances. Some pulled shivs, others summoned magic to their fingertips, but all of them instinctively stepped toward the king, using their own bodies to shield him from harm. Emrik went for his sword and cursed that the blade wasn't there to meet his fingers. He summoned his fire magic and let the gout of flame envelope the machines.

The spiders had whirring gears on their backs, and as they spun arcs of electricity fired from them, striking the stones around their feet, daring anyone to enter their space. However, no matter who dared to damage them, their armour was strong, and Emrik felt as if they were doing little to damage their enemies.

"You need to move!" He shouted. "We can't fight these things when we're not well equipped."

A spider jumped at Borkul. He caught it midair and tossed it aside. "The outsider is right." He admitted. "We must move, King."

Borkul grabbed Madanach by the back of his shirt and forced him deeper into the ruins at a jog. The others fought off the spiders and followed suit, well aware that their attackers pursued them.

They exited the corridor and into a large room. It was larger than any room they had entered, with the stone giving way to natural dirt and rock. At its centre a flight of stairs led downward, but around it orbs of dwarven metal sat on pedestals. As they exited Emrik turned and let loose a firebolt, succeeding in blowing some of the pursuing spiders backwards. Then Madanach was in front of him. The older man raised his arms, and the air around him began to cool. Emrik stepped out of the way as the King in Rags was soon surrounded by a swirling storm of ice. He looked on in awe as the man used his magic to propel the ice forward, creating a thick slab that separated them from the spiders. When the ice had set, Madanach stumbled somewhat, and both Emrik and Borkul stepped forward to help him balance.

"It's been too long," Madanach muttered.

"Well there's no going back that way." One of the Forsworn said.

"It won't hold for long. We must keep moving." Madanach addressed the group. "We're almost at the exit. The Reach beckons."

Indeed, the spiders could be heard chipping away at the ice on the other side.

"They're smart enough to realise they can abandon the wall and get here via the grates," Emrik added. "Respectfully, King, if there was a time for haste, now is that time."

The Forsworn eyed him dangerously, but Madanach nodded in agreement.

The group began to move, but were halted by the sight of two of the orbs unfolding, revealing two machines equipped with crossbows and blades. Although reluctant, Emrik followed suit as everyone prepared for combat.

"Not you, King," Borkul growled. "We will distract these _things_, you find the exit."

"I may be old, but I can fight." Madanach said stubbornly, stepping forward.

"If you die, you won't have any Forsworn to lead. Who will take your place?" Emrik asked. "Your men need you to live. Make haste."

"You do _not _give me orders!" Madanach spat. "_I _am the King in Rags. Everyone here will abide by my will or be punished."

_And here I was believing this man had a reputation for honeyed words, _Emrik shook his head.

"We would die for you, King," the woman said. "But if you die with us, we would have nothing. We would never free the Reach from the Nords."

Madanach's fury subsided.

"Borkul, with me."

"Of course."

"The rest of you, I pray to the Old Gods we see each other soon."

A crossbow bolt clattered across the floor, returning everyone to the situation at hand. The Forsworn attacked, splitting up and going for each of the automatons in even numbers. Emrik stood back and watched as their attacks bounced harmlessly off of the armour forged by the dwarves. Although the Forsworn ducked and weaved out of harms way, Emrik knew they were facing enemies who didn't need stamina. If this continued, no one would be leaving alive.

Borkul got half way around the outside of the room with his king before charging into the fray. Madanach continued on his own as the Orc ploughed into one of the automatons, knocking it over. As the machine fell Emrik spied the glint of a soul gem, and an idea struck him.

"Borkul," he called, breaking into a run towards the beast. "Hold it down."

The Orc roared and used his weight and strength to keep the machine pinned. It raised an arm and plunged a blade into the Orcs shoulder, causing him the scream in agony and bloodlust. Emrik slid over next to the machine and commanded the surrounding Forsworn to attack the other. They obliged.

Reaching into the automatons armour, Emrik felt the smooth surface of the soul gem. He gripped it tight and summoned fire, burning the artefact away. The automaton tossed and turned, almost breaking Emrik's arm in many different places, until finally there was an audible _crack _and a gush of wind as the machine died.

Emrik panted as he extracted his arm, feeling that it would be bruised the following morning. Borkul gripped the blade that was still in his shoulder and - in one motion - yanked it out, hissing in pain as he did so.

By glancing over to the second sphere, it could be seen that the Forsworn were quickly growing weary. Exhaustion and lack of sustenance in the mine was finally coming to a peak, and Emrik watched helplessly as one of the four was felled where he stood. The dwarven sphere was easily fighting off its attackers, sustaining little damage and fearing no numbers.

Gathering himself, Emrik charged at the sphere in an attempt to knock it prone. He crashed into the metallic body, only hurting himself and doing little to disrupt the machine. He summoned fire and released the stream upon the automatons face. Undeterred, it swiped and Emrik and he jumped backwards, looking down at the new slash in his shirt. The bleeding and tired Forsworn had stepped out of the fight, instead picking their way across the room to where Madanach watched and waited.

Emrik leapt forward again, reaching for the soul gem. It happened in an instant, but where there was once no opposition, suddenly there was a blade. The blade itself cut straight through Emrik's hand. It protruded from his palm, holding him in place. It was like fire. Blood pumped in his ears and pain swelled in the spot where the blade still was. The adrenaline fought off his cry of agony. He watched as the automaton fired with its crossbow, dropping another one of the Forsworn. It briefly took aim again, this time at Madanach. Emrik drew on his last reserves of magicka and cast the firebolt. It sped across the room ahead of the crossbow bolt and impacted near Madanach's feet, tossing the older man out of the way.

There was a shout of alarm as the Forsworn saw this outsider cast a spell against their king, and in an instant Borkul had torn the soul gem from the second sphere and had lifted Emrik off of his feet by the throat. Emrik registered the rage in the beasts eyes, and felt the darkness closing in on him from both the loss of air and blood.

"You dare attack our King." It was a statement. The Orc was about to pass his judgement. "To hell with you."

He reached back with a shiv in hand, ready to strike Emrik.

"Wait!" The voice belonged to Madanach, but it felt... fuzzy. Emrik desperately tried to hold on, but slipped over the edge, falling into unconsciousness.

* * *

If he was expecting to awake, he wasn't expecting to awake in a tent. Emrik blinked his eyes into focus, gathering his immediate surroundings. The tent was made of leathers and furs, and was being held up by sticks and bones, strung together with rope. He was naked, that much was certain. The chill of Skyrim settled on his skin, causing goosebumps to rise.

"So you're awake then," a voice said.

Emrik looked to see a young woman, adorned in armour made of the same materials as the tent.

"Good," she said, bored. "I'm sick of babysitting. Get changed," she added. "The King wants to see you."

She left Emrik to his own thoughts. He immediately raised his hand to his face, noticing the white scar tissue where he'd been stabbed. He'd been rescued and healed. It just didn't make sense.

Standard hide armour had been placed in the tent, and Emrik hurriedly strapped it on. With it was an iron sword and some kind of bow, once again made of wood and bone. He sighed, knowing full well that he'd lost his belonging.

He stepped out of the tent, the sun meeting him as it tried to break through a thin cover of clouds. Looking around he was undoubtedly within a Forsworn camp. They mingled about dressed like savages, doing things as simple as cooking and forging new weapons or defences for the camp.

"Hey outsider," the same woman from before said. She pointed. "He's that way."

Emrik found the King in Rags sitting on a throne made entirely of the bones of people and animals. He was dressed in armour similar to that as everyone else, but this set had skulls hanging from various parts of it. Borkul the Beast stood next to the King, arms crossed. The Orc grinned menacingly at Emrik, and it took all his willpower to not flinch. Emrik was well aware that the Madanach sitting in front of him now was leaps and bounds more powerful than the Madanach who he'd met in Cidhna Mine.

Emrik dipped his head politely, waiting for Madanach to initiate proceedings.

The King raised a crossbow bolt in front of him.

"This," he began, "is the bolt that would have killed me. It would have killed me had you not acted the way you did. I am no stranger to the cycle of life and death. Many times have I acted as both judge, jury, and executioner. The Forsworn seek peace within the Reach. It belongs to us, and so we wish to see it prosper. It is, however, a peace that must be attained through war, although I wish it not so. The Nords have forced us into this act, and where we fight they retaliate with equal parts courage and ferocity. We could be attacked here in an hour, tomorrow, a week from now, or not at all. The possibility of dying is always on the doorstep for us. It is our way of life. For me to die before my role in this land is fulfilled seems unfathomable. But, it is always possible. We all danced with death in that ruin. We lost some of our own. And it was because of you, in that moment, that I had not died myself. So hear this," he placed the bolt down and leaned forward, gazing at Emrik with a certain determination and warmness. "Your King and his bandit kingdom will remain unmolested by us. But you, Emrik, I owe you a debt that I can only attempt to repay. We will not ally ourselves with the kingdom you hail from, but should _you _ever need the might of the Forsworn, we will aid you. Once. And only once. Do you understand?"

Through his surprise and confusion, Emrik nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"You must return to Whiterun. A handful of my men will keep you safe until you reach the border. Don't worry," he added with a sly grin. "They will assist from the shadows. To any guard of traveller, you will appear to be on your own. I invite you to stay for some hours to rest, to eat, but the next move of the Forsworn needs to be both planned and executed. I want you gone come sundown."

Emrik bowed. "Of course, King." He spoke.

Madanach nodded, and with a wave of his hand Emrik was dismissed.

He left the King in Rags behind him, meaning to return to the tent in which he'd awoken. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, and the questions he had that would remain unanswered. He knew Ti'laan wouldn't be happy that Madanach had refused an alliance, but perhaps this oral treaty would be enough to keep him alive. His confusion gave way to fear.

* * *

**A/N: **I don't have any excuses. I lost the creative spark and moved on to other things. I finished this chapter literally a day before I'm meant to sit my first exam to mark the end of my schooling career.

A lot of you have good reason to give up or lose faith in this story. Honestly, reading over it, I've lost a little faith myself. I've noticed all of my mistakes, both grammatically and in terms of plot points. But I haven't given up. If a writer gives up once they see their work isn't perfect, we'd have no writers. As I once said, I fully intend to finish this fic. It'll be rewritten once, maybe twice, just to accommodate everything that needs to be changed or fixed. We'll finish this draft first, though. I appreciate your constructive criticism and your support. It's made me a better writer, it's made me consider so much more than I could've thought of on my own, and it's just made me feel... good, I guess. There is (or there was) a lot of creative and friendly people that wanted to read the next chapter, that wanted to see The Bandit King succeed. So I guess this is just me saying sorry and offering a huge massive thank you.

I'll see you all for chapter 13. And I won't take more than a year this time.


	13. Chapter 13

Ariadne was a small Redguard with big ambitions. Her physical prowess was a point of scorn amongst the people of her homeland of Hammerfell. But what she lacked in muscle, she made up for in wits.

Ariadne was, of course, an adopted name. She was born as D'uksha, but after she fled Hammerfell she took on a new name to assimilate into an Imperial upbringing. The majority of her childhood had been spent escaping political intrigue in Hammerfell. She picked her way from the border and inwards to the Imperial City, and it was the Imperial City that she'd spent the last twenty years of her life and had found herself employed as a logistician.

She brushed her hair from her eyes and nervously scratched the scar that had been given to her by pirates in her youth. By this point it was habit, and a blatant giveaway to when she was uncomfortable.

"It just doesn't make any sense..." She muttered to herself.

In her hands she held the manifest detailing the export of various goods to the province of Skyrim. It was no secret amongst those who worked under the crown and some of the nobler houses of Cyrodiil that Whiterun had been taken by a scarily organised group of bandits. It was also a matter of concern that said bandits had also made a move on Falkreath, and had - presumably - won. The fact that they held some very influential figures hostage was hardly original, but it worked to hold off the forces of the Empire. The forces of the Imperial Legion were spread thin enough as it was. Trouble in the south had captured most of their attention, but with this new bandit king making a home of Skyrim the Emperor was forced to bolster defences at the border, as well as close it and halt the export of goods.

It was a controversial and unfair call. Halting the export of goods would be punishing the good people of Skyrim who - Ariadne had no doubt - were living in a state of fear, wondering if their city would be the next to fall under this cruel regime. The Emperor, however, stood by his word. Imperial traders would no longer be allowed to cross the border. It would have a resounding impact on the economy, but the trade-off was that this kingdom of brigands wouldn't have the means to expand their own resources. A lot of central Skyrim was farmland, but, according to the Emperor, bandits didn't attend to farms. The only people who crossed the border now were smugglers and Khajiit caravans.

But this... this just didn't make any sense at all.

Ariadne read and re-read the manifest in her hand, trying to determine any contingencies or mistakes. But there were none.

A small fleet would depart Anvil carrying cargo that included, but was not limited to, food, furs, and weaponry, and would make a six-week journey out to sea, following the coastlines of Hammerfell and High Rock, before eventually making port at Dawnstar on the north coast of Skyrim. Approved and funded by the Aldmeri Dominion, in the hopes of aiding the citizens of Skyrim.

It couldn't be right. If the civil war had proven anything, it was that the Nords would rather die than bend the knee, much less accept aid from the High Elves. Surely the Dominion knew this, and yet the shipment was still approved and funded? Taking into consideration that the Emperor himself banned the export of goods...

"It just doesn't make any sense!" Ariadne said again.

"What doesn't?" Carter was leaning over her shoulder.

Ariadne almost jumped out of her skin. "By the Nine, Carter! How long have you been standing there?"

"By the Eight," Carter corrected. "And I just arrived. I had some paperwork that I had to drop off."

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Carter, read this," she handed him the manifest. "Does it some kind of... obscure to you?"

Carter read. She tried to follow his thought process, but the Imperial man was a closed book.

"Well?"

He shrugged and handed back the manifest. "It was approved and paid for by the Aldmeri Dominion. I don't understand what your problem is."

Ariadne was flabbergasted. "Please tell me you're joking," she said bluntly. "Don't you know what the Emperor would feel about this?"

"I'm well aware," Carter responded. "But there's really nothing he can do. The Aldmeri Dominion really cut out the middle man by allowing this in the first place. Since this shipment is _technically _Dominion business - disconnected from the Empire - they're well within their rights and power to do this."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Carter had a point, she admitted, but this shipment just didn't feel _right. _"Doesn't it seem weird that the High Elves would be sending assistance to the Nords?"

Carter shrugged. "I suppose. But we won the civil war. Skyrim is still part of the Empire, so I guess the Dominion feel obliged to assist the provinces within the fold of it."

"You're just content with being bullied into submission, aren't you Carter?" Ariadne scoffed.

Carter scowled. "When the Emperor signed that concordant he saved us. The Dominion are a help, not a hindrance, and I don't make that opinion a secret. What they're doing here," he gestured to the manifest, "seems to be in the same vein to me. Maybe if the Nords got over their pig-headedness and their blind patriotism than they'd see that."

Ariadne just glared at the man as she gathered what little possessions she had at her desk. "I need to take this to someone."

"Who?" Carter said snidely. "Even if the Emperor himself chose to stop the shipment, I doubt his fastest man would get to Anvil in time to stop it."

Ariadne cursed. Carter was right.

"Well I'm taking it somewhere." She said with finality.

"Like?"

"Somewhere!" Ariadne forced. In a huff, she spun on her heel and left, sheets and objects clutched to her chest loosely.

Carter watched her go, head shaking slowly. "That woman..."


End file.
